Sith'ari
by Marquis Black
Summary: It all started with shooting stars, and would end with the rise of the Sith'ari - the perfect being of the Dark. Perfect strength. Perfect power. Perfect destiny. Imagine it? With the aid of a long-deceased Sith Lady as his mentor, Harry will become it.
1. Shooting Stars

_**AN** : Just a plot bunny/first chapter of a story that has refused to leave me be until I got it out of my system. Please don't get your hopes up too much, as I still need to finish Emperor and Legacy of Uzushiogakure before I could ever possibly commit to this one. However, I figured that if one of you wonderful people felt inspired enough by it to try your own hand at this sort of storyline, I would be remiss to keep it in the vault, so to speak._

 _So, without further ado, I present the first chapter of Sith'ari._

 _Lore considerations will be at the bottom of the chapter._

 ** _Standard author's page disclaimer applies._**

* * *

 ** _Sith'ari_**

 _~ Chapter I: Shooting Stars ~_

Staring up at the starry sky above Salisbury Plain, 7-year old Harry Potter couldn't believe his incredible luck.

A month ago, his homeroom teacher, Professor Artest — or "Art," as he preferred — had announced an overnight camp for all his students, to learn more about the stars. For Harry, this normally meant that Dudley would easily get permission from his parents, and Harry would be forced to stay home.

However, Art had made this trip different — first, it would be on Friday night; and second, _parents_ were encouraged to come.

At first, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had simply dismissed the idea, until Dudley pointed out that most of the other parents would be going. Now, given the enormous effort Vernon and Petunia had put into appearing to be the perfect, normal family, it was therefore impossible for them to refuse to go any longer, which left them with a problem:

Harry.

Ordinarily, it was a matter of dumping him with Mrs. Figg, across the road. She'd babysat him often enough, after all. However, in a remarkable case of serendipity, Mrs. Figg had injured herself and was in convalescence, wholly unable to take care of him.

Which meant that, for once, Harry was going to actually _go_ on one of these field trips!

"Move it, Potter."

Harry grunted as he was shoved aside by one of Dudley's gang, almost falling to the grass, but managing to catch his footing before then. He sighed as he straightened his tape-fixed glasses. Of course, with good fortune came the bad, too. While there were far too many adults for Dudley and his friends to do anything too harsh to him openly, they still found ways to harass him.

Harry chose to ignore it in favour of relishing the opportunity to enjoy the activity.

"Come, children!" Art called out, drawing Harry's attention. "Come, come! The show's about to start!"

Harry all but bolted to the teacher's side, knowing it was one of the few safe spaces in camp, and he'd be able to listen to Art's lecture better. He'd have to fudge up his notes later, though, since he was sure Dudley would either steal them, or toss them out. "Big D" couldn't handle someone being smarter than him — and Harry even less.

"Now, who remembers what we're here to see?" his teacher asked with a wide, friendly smile.

There was a moment of silence — with the parents looking on in amused toleration — before one of the girls in his class raised her hand.

"Yes, Annie!"

"M-Meteor showers?" she asked softly, looking embarassed from speaking up in front of such a big audience.

"That's exactly right, Annie! Well done!" his teacher praised; Harry liked Art — he was always nice to everyone in class...even those who didn't deserve it.

Personally, he wished he could've answered, too, but knew that any attention he drew to himself was bad. Even though he'd known exactly why they were there, and the fact that he'd snuck a read from one of the books Art kept in the classroom for everyone, he also knew that any attempt to look smart would result in intense bullying from Dudley and his parents later on.

Better to stay out of sight.

So instead he listened. He listened to Art talk about what many apparently called shooting stars — streaks of light in the starry sky. He learned that they were meteors, not stars — big rocks that floated through space until they burned up in something Art called an...amosfeer?

He'd have to look that word up later, in case Art wanted to quiz them.

He also learned that there were literally thousands of such rocks that burned up in the sky, but many did so when no one could see. Harr found that sad — while he didn't exactly love space like Art did, he always did find some comfort in the night; it was the one time when no one was hitting him or yelling at him.

"Now, did you also know that many people like to make a wish when they see a shooting star?" Art asked suddenly, drawing Harry's perk attention.

"Why's that?" one of the boys asked.

Art smiled at his students conspiratorially. "They say that a wish made upon a shooting star comes true!" he mock-whispered. "Like magic!"

Harry winced almost by default. In the Dursley household, magic was the forbidden m-word, and for some reason, they always seemed to think any mention of the word was _his_ fault. Even now, he could feel Uncle Vernon's glare boring into him, even though all he'd done was just stand there quietly for the whole lecture.

He hoped Vernon would forget the whole thing by the time they got home, given he couldn't indulge in some "Harry yelling" amidst all these people.

If his luck held out, however, he knew that was probably impossible.

In any case, Art's lecture didn't last much longer, as the very best thing Harry had ever seen in his life interrupted him — the meteor shower itself. It was honestly the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Streak after streak of light criss-crossed the night sky, punctuated by the "oo!" and "ah!" of his equally impressed classmates. Even Dudley seemed suitably impressed — and very little ever did.

"Can you imagine, children?" he vaguely heard Art speaking again, "All these hundreds of meteors roaming the galaxy until they happen to come to our world, at this precise time, for all of us to enjoy?"

It was certainly quite unbelievable, and yet the evidence lay before his eyes. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to be among those shooting stars, as Art called them. He knew that Art said their light was simply them burning up in the sky, but even so — what it must be like to even soar across space, freely!

He eyed the other children — and Dudley in particular. He had never truly known what it felt like to be normal, to be free of harassment. He knew his situation was irregular — even if he was unable to put it in words. He knew other kids didn't have to deal with the things he experienced at home — he overheard enough conversations to know he wasn't supposed to have his birthday ignored, for example, or be forced to cook for the Dursleys at their whim.

He knew he ought to have been playing with the other kids, allowed to have a room of his own, like Dudley; he knew he should be included in family nights and outings. He knew that being yelled at for the smallest grievances wasn't supposed to happen to him.

He knew the bad feelings stirring inside him weren't supposed to be there.

And it manifested, sometimes. At the worst of times, regularly — like when Uncle Vernon was yelling at him, or threatening him with bodily violence. Sometimes, when his feelings ran darkest, Harry imagined hurting _them_ in return, and something….weird would happen.

Once, a vase blew up near Aunt Petunia while she glared at him as Uncle Vernon screamed at him for not tending to his aunt's garden _perfectly_. Another time, Dudley suddenly slipped while stomping up and down the stairs to harass him, breaking his nose. His cousin swore the normally carpeted stairs had turned to ice, then back to rug.

Ridiculous, of course, but it got Harry yelled at nonetheless — and foodless for a day and a half.

Harry shook his head. He mustn't let the bad thoughts ruin this perfect outing — for any situation where he was not under the Dursleys' power was perfect to him. Heck, a meteor could flatten the Dursley's tent right now and….

No! Those were bad thoughts! He'd heard Art's lectures long enough to know that wishing harm upon others was _wrong_.

But it was hard to agree….and every passing day, it became harder still.

"Alright, children, that's about enough for tonight, I think!"

Harry felt his stomach drop as Art announced the end of the show. It meant it was time to sleep, and that invariably meant that in the morning, it was time to return…"home."

"Off to bed, now!" Art was announcing, and Harry watched as parents began to herd their protesting children away to their tents. Harry was fortunate enough that the Dursleys didn't care enough about him to do the same. Instead, the raven-haired boy silently made his own way back, ignoring the occasional elbow shove from a passing bully.

However, as he reached his ratty little tent — just one tent away from the Dursleys' extra-large deluxe tent — a mischievous thought crossed his mind. Everyone else had seemed ready to sleep, but Harry didn't want to waste any of this precious free time by following the Dursleys' lead. Not this time.

So, instead, he waited inside, lying down, until Art passed by for his check and shone his flashlight on the tent. He heard the man mumble something in what he thought was a disapproving tone, and then move on. Once he was sure Art was out of the way, Harry unzipped his tent as quietly as he could and snuck out, walking away from camp to get a better look at the meteor shower by himself — without anyone to bother him.

Finding a nice, comfortable spot on the grass, Harry lay down on his back and spread his limbs out, enjoying the feeling of the cool grass on his skin as his jade-green eyes roamed the clear night sky — the galaxy's wondrous image burning into his memory.

Once, during Science class, Art had tried to get their interest going by mentioning that every star in the sky was actually a sun, around which many planets circled. He'd even mentioned that some believed these planets had alien life upon them, who could have lives very much like their own.

The trick had worked, of course. Children Harry's age loved tall tales, and stories about starships and lasers and aliens sounded cool.

For Harry, however, it made him think if perhaps that meant there was someone else out there who'd experienced the kind of pain he had. The kind of loneliness he felt every day. He wondered if someone out there knew what it was like to be told your parents were drunks who died selfishly in a car accident, leaving him on the doorsteps of mean relatives.

Harry snorted. Of course not. No one was that unfortunate.

He sighed as he kept his eyes glued on the sky, tracking each falling star as it whisked by. He wished he could be among them, leaving behind the Dursleys and all those bad feelings behind. He wished he could be free like a bird, going wherever he wanted.

A darker thought crossed his mind then.

He wished he could _hurt_ the Dursleys the way they'd hurt him.

It was at that moment that a booming noise tore through the sky — not unlike that of thunder. Harry jumped in place, but relaxed when he realised there was no storm. Then he frowned. There _was_ no storm. He looked around and raised a hand — no rain, no flashes in the sky.

Behind him he could hear panicked voices coming from the camp, and felt some bubbling inside him, too. If they realised he'd left, he would be in _so_ much trouble! Especially now that he'd given the Dursleys _a reason_ to yell at him in public! Lights from flashlights activated, sending beams of artificial light into the sky.

He thought about making a discrete run for it back to his tent — it was fortunately on the edge of the camp — but settled down when he noticed that the lights were going out again. Had they decided against whatever it was they were about to do? That was fortunate. Sighing in relief, Harry fell to the grass and rolled back onto his back. That had been close.

Again, dark thoughts slipped into his mind.

' _What if the Dursleys had found out?_ '

He snorted. ' _They would've yelled at me in public.._ '

' _Art would've been so disappointed. He'd let them, probably._ '

' _He wouldn't do that_.'

' _Yes, he would. Everyone says I'm trouble. He'd believe them._ '

' _Art is a good person, he wouldn't betray me._ '

' _Everyone always does! Remember Nina? Remember John? Where were they when Dudley and Piers had their fun?_ '

Harry rolled onto his side, feeling hot tears forming at the edge of his eyes. He really hated his life; it was unfair that everyone kept looking at him like _he_ was the bad one, the troublemaker. It seemed impossible that no one else had noticed Dudley being mean to him and other kids who were...nice to him, but the teachers never seemed to.

Or maybe they knew, and didn't care.

Bad feelings swelled in him again as he thought of all the teachers in his school who looked down their noses at him. Like he was some sort of pest. Like he was unwelcome there. All he'd done was try to get their approval, but one conversation with the Dursleys, and he was less than a bug to them.

He curled into a ball.

' _I hate them._ '

His breath hitched as he bit back a sob.

' _I hate the Dursleys._ '

His hands curled into fists so tight his fingers turned bone white.

' _I hate_ _ **everyone**_ _.'_

 _Harry Potter_

Harry's eyes snapped open as he sat up, surprised at the voice he'd just heard. It wasn't his own — it was female!

He looked around fearfully, thinking someone from camp had noticed his absence and gone out to look for him. He wondered what lie he'd have to use to get out of trouble before the Dursleys found out. Yet, as he looked around, he noticed he was still quite alone.

Narrowing his eyes in confusion, 7-year old Harry Potter stood up and tried to look around again, but found no one else. What was going on?

Then, as he was about to give up and return to camp for _some_ sleep, he caught a flash of red light in the distance. He blinked, thinking it must've been a trick of the mind, but soon enough, it flashed again. Frowning, he turned to leave back to camp when he felt... _something_ compelling him to look back.

The flash returned.

Curiosity and self-preservation battled a fierce war inside him in which the former won out. Taking a hesitant step towards the distant flash of red light, Harry was rewarded by a stronger flash this time...as though it was calling to him.

Before he realised it, he was already halfway there, with the flash of red light guiding his steps. Looking back to the camp — at least, he _thought_ that was the direction of the camp — he saw nothing but darkness. Fear began to well up in him — had he made a terrible mistake? Would he end up on the news, like those other missing children he occasionally saw on tv?

Surprisingly, that fear compelled him to move _towards_ the red light. His small feet even began to hurt after walking so far. His tiredness, too, became more and more accentuated, yet his legs refused to give in.

When he got to his destination, all of his concerns faded away, replaced by wonder.

Lying in a small ditch that looked like someone had dragged it along the ground was a golden pyramidical object unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He cautiously walked up to it and was surprised when he saw it flash red — meaning, this was the source!

Awed, he knelt down by it and wondered if he could touch it, and where it came from. Had someone left it here? Maybe they'd lost it? He wistfully looked up at the sky. Maybe it was one of Art's shooting stars?

The pyramid flashed red again.

Harry started in surprise, but quickly settled himself back under control. Eyeing the pyramid suspiciously, he slowly extended his hand toward it, hoping to just touch it with the tip of his finger. If it hurt, he knew it was bad and would just leave it there. If it didn't, maybe it was harmless?

He closed his eyes as his finger neared the pyramid's surface, and bit his lip. He hoped it didn't hurt.

The finger touched.

Nothing happened.

Mildly torn between disappointment and relief, Harry opened one eye and observed the pyramid as his finger kept touching it. Nothing was happening — no red flash, nothing. Now with both eyes open, he reached out and grabbed it with both hands, wondering what he'd found.

' _What's with the weird symbols?_ ' he wondered as his hands touched the surface. ' _It looks like something Dudley might've doodled._ '

Oddly, the pyramid no longer flashed. He wondered why; had he broken it somehow? He hoped not — it was really cool! It was just the sort of thing he would've loved to receive as a gift — strange, but mysterious.

The thought brought him screeching back to reality as he realised there was no way he _could_ keep it — the Dursleys wouldn't wear it. Either they'd throw it away, or give it to Dudley. Just the thought of it made a flash of anger rush through his system.

The pyramid glowed red in his hands.

Surprised, Harry nearly let the object drop, but when it failed to do anything, he kept his grip on it firm. Why had it flashed then?

He eyed the ditch where he'd found it. Perhaps it was better to just leave it here?

No. He couldn't.

Eyes glazing over, he was struck by the thought of bringing the pyramid back home, and hiding it in his room — a small act of defiance against the Dursleys' rules. It would certainly show them he wasn't _completely_ under their thumbs!

Again, before he realised what he was doing, he'd started making his way back to camp. He idly wondered how he knew where to go, but found himself unwilling to question it.

All he knew and cared about was that he'd finally gotten to do what he wanted, and gotten a cool souvenir for it.

All in all, not a bad trip.

* * *

 _ **A month later…**_

Harry eyed the strange pyramid on his cot suspiciously.

Ever since they'd gotten back from the trip, Harry had stashed the object under the floorboards in a successful attempt at hiding it from the Dursleys. At the very least, they hadn't made a fuss out of it yet, so he hoped it really _was_ outside their notice.

However, after their return, Harry had found his life once again dominated by the constant need to please his guardians as they treated him like little more than a small servant. He cooked — or tried to, occasionally failing and getting yelled at for it — and helped with laundry, and the garden, and with Dudley's homework whenever his cousin was too lazy to do it himself, and anything else that stroked the Dursley's fancy.

His only saving grace was that anything they wanted him to do had to be done within the house — he imagined even the Dursleys would have a hard time justifying why a 7-year old was out mowing the grass with a machine that was a head and a half taller than him.

However, by the end of the month, they had once again managed to abuse his patience to the breaking point.

He couldn't exactly pinpoint _what_ it was that had made him snap — maybe it was Dudley doing his stupid stomping on the stairs again, or perhaps it was Petunia's snide remarks about his "deadbeat parents." Maybe it was Vernon yelling at him for apparently failing to cook the bacon _just right_.

Whatever it was, he'd felt bad feelings swell inside him once again — now identified as _hate_ thanks to a school lesson on emotions — and the living room lightbulbs had all exploded.

He couldn't exactly say _why_ they'd exploded, but it didn't seem to matter to Vernon, who purpled up, grabbed him by the scruff of his oversized shirt, and all but threw him into his cupboard under the stairs, yelling at him for apparently being an "ungrateful freak" who would have the "freakishness beat out of" him.

Hatred was then matched by fear, as he dreaded Vernon's physical punishments. However, as the feelings inside him coalesced into a whirlwind of emotional onslaught that all but paralysed him on his cot, he saw the floorboards in his darkened cupboard glow bright red.

It was then that he recalled his prized souvenir from the Salisbury trip.

Removing it from its hiding spot — and taking great care to cover the bottom of the cupboard door to prevent the flash from drawing attention — Harry placed the object on his cot and looked at it curiously.

What had made it flash again?

He tried to think back to the class trip, and found he couldn't remember finding any reason for its glow. The realisation frustrated him, as not knowing would mean that he had no control over its flashing ability, which meant the Dursleys could potentially find his hiding spot for all his treasured items, and punish him for it.

The pyramid flashed red again.

Harry blinked, a little more aware of things this time around. He'd been...angry, hadn't he? When the pyramid glowed, he was _angry_. But...what kind of object glowed when people got angry? He thought about asking an adult, and immediately dismissed the idea; they'd just tell the Dursleys, who would punish him for being "freaky" and "asking freaky questions."

"Why do you glow?" he asked the pyramid softly, feeling a bit like a berk for talking to an inanimate object.

He sighed when it failed to respond, and instead tried to test out his idea. Thinking back on all the horrible things the Dursleys had done to him and said to him, he felt the anger and _hatred_ rise within him, like bile trying to creep up his throat.

Immediately, the pyramid flashed its brightest red yet, causing him to yelp at the suddenness of the reaction.

Instantly, someone banged three times at his cupboard door, and he feared the jig was up.

"QUIET DOWN, FREAK!"

Frantically looking for a quick place to hide the pyramid from sight, Harry was nonetheless paralysed out of fear on his bed — only the sound of steps receding calmed him down; apparently, the Dursleys were content to leave him be this one time.

He knew he could not count on being this lucky again.

"You're nothing but trouble!" Harry hissed at the pyramid ineffectually as he grabbed it and made for the floorboards to hide it again. "I knew I should've left you where I found you!"

 _Is that truly what you wish, child?_

Harry started at the voice that flooded his mind at that moment, only his tight grip preventing the pyramid from slipping out of his hands. Looking around, he half expected to find someone in his cupboard, or outside the door, but considering that Vernon hadn't made a racket, that didn't seem to be the case.

 _The bloated one cannot hear me, for I wish not to speak to it._

Getting slightly fearful, considering the scary stories he'd heard about ghosts, Harry all but dove for his cot and drew the covers over his head. Maybe the lady ghost would leave him alone?

 _I can sense your fear, child. Fear not, for I would not hurt you._

Peeking out from under the covers, Harry looked around the darkened room for the ghost haunting him. "W-Who are you?" he asked softly.

 _I am one who would help you. One who would set you free._

Harry slowly lowered the covers. "Free?" he whispered.

 _Yesss….free. Free from pain. Free from servitude. Free from the oafs and brutes who would see you at their feet forever._

There was still no sign of the ghost, and she didn't _sound_ like she wanted to hurt him. Finally sitting up on his cot, he once again looked around. "Where are you?"

 _I am here, child, as I've been for the past solar cycles._

Harry blinked, feeling dumb for not understanding. "Sorry, I don't understand."

When there was no answer, Harry feared he might've upset the ghost, and frantically tried to think of something clever to say. "Sorry, I mean…"

 _Your ignorance is disappointing, little one, but not unexpected. The bloated one, his mate, and spawn appear responsible for this deleterious state of affairs._

Harry blinked at all the complex words the voice had used. He wondered what she meant.

"Are you talking about...the Dursleys?"

 _Names have power, child, and thus belong to the strong. They are not strong, and therefore deserve no name._

Harry found that made...a strange sort of sense? And yet, he was the weak one here — was _that_ why she hadn't called him by name?

"I'm Harry Potter," he introduced himself naively. "Do _I_ deserve my name?"

The voice sounded pleased with the question. _In time, you will, youngling, if you seize it. As you are, you are but what your captors say you are. A burden._

Harry's breath hitched as his anger returned. He knew what that word meant — the Dursleys had said it enough times that he'd looked it up. He was _not_ a burden. He was the one who did all the work! "I am _not_ a burden!" he hissed.

 _...Good. Harness that anger. It will be your greatest ally._

The thought struck Harry as...wrong. Art and the other teachers at school had constantly told him and his classmates that anger was bad; that it led to fighting, and fighting was bad.

"But...isn't anger, bad?" he asked tentatively.

 _Do you feel you deserve to be hated, little one? To be hurt as you have been?_

He was silent.

 _Then if not, why would it be wrong to be angry at those who hurt you? To want to teach them a lesson?_

"But fighting is bad...isn't it?" he asked uncertainly.

 _Is it bad to defend someone you care about, child?_

"No…"

 _Then why would defending yourself be bad?_

Again, the woman's words were convincing, even though he could not see her. Still, the pertinent question gnawed at him.

"Who are you?" he asked softly, looking around for the source of the voice.

 _I am one who has travelled across the void of space through millennia. I have seen stars be born, and die. Across time and space, I have witnessed the beauty of creation and the despair of death._

Suddenly, the pyramid — which he'd completely forgotten he was cradling — glowed softly as wisps of smoke spewed forth from the top of the pyramid, prompting Harry to panic as he thought it might've caught on fire.

Before he could act on his panic, however, he was treated to the sight of the smoke coalescing into a blurry figure, and then into the definite shape of the strangest woman he'd ever seen in his admittedly short life.

Ethereally blue-white skin was offset by dark markings on the woman's face, making her look like one of those people Vernon liked to rail about on occasion. Piercing grey eyes stared him down without pity or compassion, seemingly contemplating his worth as strands of wild, loose dark hair flitted about. Bandages wrapped around her throat made Harry wonder if perhaps she was injured, or if it was supposed to be there on purpose, to match with the distinct robes her upper half wore.

But most worryingly of all? Her hands, whose long, bony fingers were topped by long, ghastly looking nails.

Whoever this woman was, she did _not_ look friendly.

 _I am XoXaan, and I was once Dark Lady of the Sith, as I would have you become, little one, if you wish it._

Harry blinked — the difference between her looks and her gentle voice were really jarring. "S-Sith?" he asked softly.

 _Yes, Sith. Pledge yourself to be my apprentice, and I will teach you the skill to bend the world to your will; to right the wrongs inflicted upon you; to make things right._

"I…" he hesitated. He was unsure why, but the woman's words struck a wrong note with him. Something wasn't right...but at the same time, what she was promising was incredibly alluring. The power to make things right? "I don't know…"

To the woman's credit, she seemed unmoved. _I have watched you all this time, child, learning of you and this world; you possess power beyond these fools' comprehension, and it scares them. You must know that they will never accept you; to them, you are the worst thing in their pathetic lives._

To Harry, each word was like a physical blow to his body, and he curled up in a ball on his cot. He knew she was right, which made it so much worse.

 _But they are wrong, child; they are blinded by their ignorance. Through you they had the chance to become part of a larger, greater destiny, and they threw it away. While they would refuse you your birthright, I would help you_ _ **seize it**_ _._

"H-How?"

XoXaan's image gave him a small smile that somehow made her all the more terrifying.

 _Close your eyes, little one._

Hesitantly, Harry complied nonetheless.

 _Think of nothing, now. Focus only on my voice._

After a moment, Harry nodded.

 _Good...now, imagine your bed. Do you see it in your mind's eye?_

Harry wondered if she meant his imagination, and he nodded.

 _Very good. Now, think of all it represents. Think about how there's a perfectly good bed nearby that the oaf refuses to let you use. Think about how they force you to live under the stairs. Think about all the pain they have caused you._

With every passing command, Harry felt his anger return in full force...and for some reason, he could feel something else within his stirring.

 _And now, child, imagine you could raise your bed with your mind._

It was a strange request, but Harry complied.

 _Open your eyes, little one_.

Harry opened his eyes, and audibly gasped.

His bed was now, somehow, floating an _inch_ over the floor. "What's going on?!" he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting about the dangers of having the Dursleys burst in.

XoXaan's image merely gazed at him steadily. _You have tapped into the power that has always been within you, child. With my instruction, you could do much more._

Harry's eyes widened. _More?_ It seemed unfathomable. Already, his bed was hovering an inch over the ground. What more could there possibly be?

 _The Force. That which connects all things, living and dead. It is everywhere and in everything. Even now, I can feel your presence glowing in the Force. What you choose to do with it, however, is now the choice I have laid before you._

XoXaan's image motioned to the door.

 _You may, for example, choose to ignore my offer, and I shall away from you for good, never to trouble you again._

Harry felt a bit of bile rise in his throat at the idea of being left alone at the Dursleys' mercy once more. Then, XoXaan motioned to the bed with her other hand.

 _On the other hand, you could choose the path of the Sith — of power, victory, and ultimately, freedom. I would teach you the mysteries of our order, and with them, you would become this galaxy's first Lord of the Sith — the one person capable and deserving of passing judgment unto all._

 _Choose, child._

Harry eyed his cupboard door, and then the bed. Honestly, it seemed like a no-brainer to him. Either be alone and bullied again, or take the chance that this woman was offering to turn things around.

It really was a no-brainer.

"What do I have to do?" he asked.

XoXaan's image smiled a little more widely, and she gestured for him to get off the bed and onto the floor. As he did so, he saw the bed slowly come back down to the ground.

 _Kneel, and we will make our bond official._

Harry complied, going down to one knee before her and looking up at her ghostly image.

 _Understand that there is no turning back from this commitment, little one. Once you have chosen to be Sith, you will remain so until the day that body perishes and you become one with the Force. If you agree, then from this day forth, you will be my apprentice, and I, your master._

XoXaan narrowed her eyes at him. _Do you understand, child?_

It took Harry less than a second to bow his head. "Yes...master."

XoXaan's smile sent chills down his spine.

* * *

 _ **Lore Considerations:**_

HP-verse: All Canon until Harry is 7 years old. Canon deviations begin there.

SW-verse: All Canon past the fall of the One Sith from the **Legends** continuity. This story takes place _centuries_ after Star Wars: Legacy. I'm heavily basing lore assumptions on Wookieepedia, but if you know of other sources that might be helpful, I'd appreciate it. Assume Episode VII takes place in an AU (in other words, didn't happen).

Additional Note: Please keep in mind that just because **XoXaan** believes Earth magic to be beneath her notice _right now_ does not mean Harry will be neglecting his magical upbringing in the future.


	2. Growing Up Sith

_**AN:** I'm almost done with the next chapter of Legacy of Uzushiogakure, so I figured since this one was done, too, I might as well post it._

 _Also, to clarify some lore aspects:_

 _XoXaan (proper spelling) was one of the **original** Sith Lords from the Star Wars **Legends** continuity. She, along with the other Dark Jedi Exiles from the Hundred Years Darkness, settled on Korriban during their exile and enslaved the local **Sith** population, manipulating them into believing the Dark Jedi were gods. These exiles are responsible for the creation of the **Sith Order** , including the infamous **Sith Code**._

 _Her information is available on Wookiepedia._

 _Regarding her holocron, and why it activated with Harry - I'm taking a few liberties here. As one of the original Sith Lords, her holocron also counts as one of the oldest in Sith Order existence; therefore, it works a bit differently from later, diluted forms of Sith holocrons._

 _Anyway, enjoy the read!_

* * *

 _ **Privet Drive, England, March 1988…**_

XoXaan was an unforgiving master.

For all of her promises, Harry had begun to see that his vow to the strange, ghost lady may have been one made in haste, as XoXaan constantly demanded progress. Every misstep was met with a sneer or insult — to the extent that Harry often wondered how she was any better than the Dursleys.

Until, at least, the first results had flourished.

The first thing XoXaan had demanded of him was training his mind to _learn_. He'd thought the whole thing confusing, until, on a whim, he'd decided to go along with her lesson — after all, what was the worse that could happen?

As it turned out, XoXaan could indeed deliver on her promises. Thanks to her lessons in organising his mind, Harry had begun to find it difficult to _forget_ things. At school, he'd even begun to forego the use of notes as he absorbed the lessons with increasing ease. When he'd told his master of his achievement, she'd been amused by his exuberance, informing him that he'd only achieved the bare minimum required of a Sith Apprentice.

The revelation was...unwelcome.

However, more unwelcome was the attention he was beginning to draw as well. In light of his increasingly improving grades, despite lack of any visual effort, some of his teachers had begun to question whether he was cheating or not — likely fueled by the stories his legal guardians had spread. They never came out and _said it_ to his face, or to his guardians, but he could see their suspicions in the way they acted around him.

 _The weak will always seek to explain superiority within the limits of their own abilities, apprentice_.

Harry frowned as XoXaan's image remained unmoved by his grouching. "But master, they're lying!" he complained.

Her piercing gaze narrowed at him. _And they shall continue to lie, so long as you allow them to._

Harry was confused. Allow them to? How could he stop them? They were adults. "But, how do I make them stop lying, master?"

XoXaan's expression remained unreadable, as though she were silently, telepathically telling him what to do, and not just running circles around his complaints. _Sith learn through action, apprentice, not coddling. If you have been mindful of our lessons, and listen to the Force, the answer will come to you._

Easier said than done.

However, Harry could draw no more out of his teacher, who refused to advance his lessons until he overcame this challenge. It frustrated him to no end, but XoXaan's will was unbreakable. No amount of complaining would move her.

He supposed being a ghost helped.

So, after enduring the suspicious stares of his teachers — Art excluded — for almost a week, he decided to put his master's words into action.

After a particularly depressing episode during which his teacher had all but stated that she suspected him of cheating — though she could not prove it — Harry had gone back to his desk and closed his eyes, following XoXaan's instruction of letting his anger and resentment flow through him as he reached out to the Force.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or expecting, and for a while, he simply sat there in silence, an angered, resentful expression plastered on his face as he communed with the Force.

And yet, nothing came. No magical answer descended from the sky. All he had was himself stewing in his seat while the teacher shot him reproachful glances.

The sight of them irked him something fierce. They were all so sure that he was the scum of the Dursleys' stories — even with no proof! In fact, if they were so sure he was cheating, then why didn't they _prove it—_

Harry blinked.

That was it, wasn't it? They hadn't acted against his so-called cheating because they had no proof, and if he challenged them on that, they'd be forced to give him a chance to prove he wasn't cheating at all!

His first instinct was to jump to his feet and demand the teacher prove he was cheating — and that thought was immediately struck down. XoXaan would have his hide if he acted so bullishly. She had taught him that a Sith was, above all, _cunning_ in dealing with threats. Sith who rushed their enemies had to be certain of their own superiority if they wanted to win...and Harry could not make that claim.

So, instead, he waited patiently for the class to let out, and watched as the teacher left the room with the tests. He considered following her and confronting her about her suspicions, but something told him that would end badly. Closing his eyes, he opened himself up to the Force like XoXaan had taught him, and felt himself rise from his desk and marching out of the classroom.

Fortunately, they had a break.

Wandering down the hallway amongst all the other rambunctious kids in his school, Harry paid them no heed, letting the Force guide his actions — it was a novel feeling, like letting someone else pilot your body while remaining completely conscious. Step by step, he saw the Headmistress' office come ever closer, and an idea began to germinate in his mind.

Allowing the Force to guide him to the door, he politely knocked on the frame three times, prompting a tired "come in," from within. Deliberately meek, he slowly opened the door to give the impression of shyness, and was rewarded by a hastily crafted neutral expression from the Headmistress' secretary, Mr. Wilkie. Unlike some of the teachers, Mr. Wilkie at least _tried_ to be professional around Harry, although there was no hiding the slight disdain in his eyes.

"Mr. Potter, what brings you here?" he greeted Harry as he surreptitiously glanced at the clock. "Shouldn't you be outside, playing with the other kids?"

He knew damn well no one would play with him, but Harry had to give it to him for trying to at least make the conversation sound normal.

He shook his head. "I need to speak with Headmistress Roemmele, Mr. Wilkie."

And there it was: the slight twitch of the eyebrow, the frown.

"The headmistress is very busy, Mr. Potter," Wilkie informed him pompously. "May I know why you would disturb her?"

Even just a month ago, Harry wouldn't have noticed the variety of tells the man was exuding as he spoke to him, but XoXaan's tutelage was thorough. Among her first lessons had been what Harry had come to call "people watching," making him tell her what he saw in every person's expression and body language. It was amazingly informative.

Like now: head tilt, slight frown, pursed lips, tapping fingers...Mr. Wilkie was annoyed. Part of him wanted to leave, before he caused anymore trouble — the part of him the Dursleys had trained well to avoid conflict.

Another, louder part of him — the side that XoXaan had trained to _seek_ conflict — forced him to stay put.

"I think Mrs. Ackley thinks I'm cheating," he answered Wilkie in his most convincing boyish tone. XoXaan had encouraged him to emotionally manipulate others through such underhanded means. "And...and I want to prove to her I'm not!"

Wilkie narrowed his eyes. "That is a grave accusation, Mr. Potter. Have you given her cause to believe you _are_ cheating?" he asked, hinting at where he stood on that particular issue.

Harry was beginning to think the Force wasn't all it was cracked up to be if it led him to being interrogated this way by the Headmistress' secretary. "No!" he protested.

The look upon Wilkie's face did little to assuage Harry's fears that this attempt had backfired. He was about to storm off when the Force, once again, came through for him in the least predictable manner.

"What's this about cheating?"

Harry felt a strange mix of emotions at that moment — relief, horror, apprehension, hope. As he turned around, he saw Professor Artest standing at the door, a stack of papers in hand, as he kept looking from Harry to Wilkie.

"Professor," Wilkie greeted the man neutrally. "It's nothing; are those the evaluation forms?"

Art nodded, refusing to move his gaze from Harry. "Yes, so what's this about cheating?" he repeated himself, stubbornly refusing to be distracted. "I wasn't aware that my rising star here was under such suspicions."

Wilkie seemed annoyed by the conversation's turn, and did little to hide it. "He isn't. Mr. Potter here was merely sharing his concerns about your colleagues; concerns which I'm sure are exaggerated," he added pompously.

The snide insinuation that he was making this up steamed Harry, but he did his best to keep his temper under a lid, knowing it would do little to help his claim before what was probably the nicest and most honest teacher in the school.

"Harry, is this true?" Artest asked him after setting the papers on Wilkie's desk and crouching in front of him. "Are you being accused of cheating?"

Harry idled from foot to foot for a moment, anxiety welling up inside him. He really liked Art; if he didn't believe him, he didn't know what he'd do. For once, he didn't have to rely on XoXaan's teachings about manipulating people. He desperately _wanted_ Art to believe him.

"T-They haven't s-said, so," Harry confessed. "But I can see it in their eyes! I always finish quickly, but they always seem angry when I do…"

"Circumstantial," Wilkie proclaimed smugly. Harry frowned — he didn't know that word, but from the way Wilkie was acting, he knew it was bad.

"I've never known Harry to exaggerate, Bart," Artest noted as he tore his gaze from Harry to stand and look at Wilkie. "Much less complain, now that I think about it. Besides, I'm sure Headmistress Roemmele would appreciate it if her staff was held accountable to any such misgivings by any of our students, as any respectable education worker would."

Mr. Wilkie seemed to deflate a bit at that, shooting Harry reproving glances before looking back at Art. "Fine," he ground out. "Wait here."

As he left his desk to inform the Headmistress, Art turned to Harry and smiled, though he seemed a little disappointed, too.

"Why didn't you tell me, Harry?" he asked gently. "If I'd known about this sooner, I could've spoken to the Headmistress."

Harry looked down. "I'm sorry, professor. I didn't want to bother you."

He heard Art sigh and promptly felt a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Harry smiled — the act felt good, relaxing. Comforting, even.

"That's what teachers are for, Harry," Art informed him kindly. "If you're ever in trouble, you come find me."

Harry grinned up at his favourite teacher, his gratitude reaching new heights, even as he heard the door to the Headmistress' office open again.

"Mr. Potter, Professor, the Headmistress will see you now."

* * *

 _ **Privet Drive, England, June 14th, 1989…**_

Ever since Harry had dealt with his academic issues, such that his achievements could no longer be repressed or smeared by accusations of cheating — thanks in large part to Art's intervention with Headmistress Roemmele — Harry had found that his school life had become marginally less depressing.

Now, instead of students bullying him _and_ the teachers looking at him like he was a waste of space, he only had to deal with the students.

Which brought him to XoXaan's next great lesson — how to deal with his enemies.

Suffice to say, the Sith way did not brook enemies kindly.

"That seems...a bit much, doesn't it?" he asked uncertainly as XoXaan finished her lecture. Despite how much he owed to the deceased Sith Lady, he couldn't really countenance the idea of putting the Dursleys in their place by deliberately hurting them.

The ghostly apparition stared him down impassively. _The language of the strong is power, apprentice. That is why...bullies, as you call them, act as they wish — because they have the power to do so, while the weak do not._

Harry frowned — it wasn't the first time XoXaan had expressed unfamiliarity with a term. It often happened with regards to more informal terms, however — slang and the like. It was almost as though she constructed her sentences based on a really formal dictionary.

"But hurting them? Won't that bring a lot of attention?" he asked softly, mindful of the fact that he still had to hide his lessons from the Dursleys. Fortunately, each of his "family" had made plans to be out at the moment, but he refused to feel complacent. You never knew when they might return, after all. " _Unwanted_ attention?"

 _There are many ways to bring harm to others, apprentice._ XoXaan's image looked at him knowingly. _Is all your pain physical?_

"No…"

 _Correct. Just as there are many types of pain, so too are there many ways in which the Force can be used to exert dominance over the unworthy._

At this, her image shifted to show a nondescript figure raising his hand at another, causing the second one to appear to be choking.

 _One can, for instance, utilise the Force to cut off a person's breathing._

The next image showed a person twitching on the ground as they were assaulted by what appeared like lightning bolts shooting out of the attacker's hands.

 _Or ravage their senses with the pain of electricity_.

Yet another image showed the victim on their knees, grabbing their heads and silently screaming while the aggressor merely looked on.

 _Or even flood their minds with such terror that they will beg for it all to stop._

XoXaan's image returned then, looking completely unfazed at having just subjected her child apprentice to the sight of people suffering. _In the end, it all lies upon the choice of the Force wielder, and the circumstances of the act._

Despite being somewhat shaken by what he'd seen, Harry swallowed his anxiety and decided to ask what seemed like the most pertinent question at this point. "How so, Master?"

XoXaan motioned towards the cupboard door. _Consider this: if you were confronting the uncouth oath and he was about to physically agress you, which of the three options I have given you would you choose?_

Harry smirked a bit at XoXaan's nickname for Vernon. He then frowned as he considered the question. "I...maybe the lightning? It would get him to stop."

 _But it would also attract attention, apprentice._ XoXaan didn't seem surprised a his wrong answer, though perhaps a bit disappointed. _His screams would attract the notice of his odious companion, or his fool of a spawn. Thereupon you would be forced to increase the violence to control_ _ **them**_ _, too._

Harry blinked. He hadn't thought of that. "And then the neighbours might hear," he mused, continuing XoXaan's train of thought.

The image nodded solemnly. _Correct. Violence without forethought shall always incite further violence. Violence correctly applied, however, will imbue terror and control. Remember that._

Harry nodded. "I will, Master," he agreed, before frowning. "But, how?"

XoXaan merely raised an eyebrow.

Harry mentally cursed — XoXaan had early on set a few rules that forbade him any answers from her if he didn't correctly phrase his questions. She refused to tolerate childishness, and so demanded he educate himself to the point where he could correctly converse with her.

"Apologies, Master. What did you mean by correctly applied violence?" he rephrased himself.

XoXaan nodded. _The correct answer from my previous query, apprentice: have you figured it out, yet?_

Harry frowned and reconsidered the question and his options, before using simple elimination to reach the desired answer. "The choking."

XoXaan nodded in response. _Correct. Do you realise why?_

"Because it's less obvious?" he ventured.

His teacher seemed a bit annoyed at the uncertain tone in his voice. _You are half-correct, apprentice. While of the three it is certainly more inconspicuous due to its lack of screaming, it is also profoundly psychological._

Harry frowned at the unfamiliar words, though he got the gist of it. Basically, mind-stuff. "How so, Master?"

 _By revealing your ability to constrict their breathing, your guardians will thereafter live in fear of you. Properly applied, the ability would result in their deaths, but even occasional, marginal use of it would serve as a constant reminder of the fragility of their own lives...and your ability to sever it._

Harry fidgeted on his bed, unsure of what she was telling him. He didn't want to...kill the Dursleys. Not really. Maybe hurt them a little — make them pay for what they'd done to him...but this sounded really close to outright murder.

XoXaan must've sensed his uncertainty, for she fixed him with a stern glare. _Remember, apprentice: you will never be free until you come to realise these fools are nothing on your path. They do not deserve your pity, nor your mercy, just as they have shown you none. Or do you wish for me to recite their transgressions against you from the day you brought me back?_

Harry shook his head in the negative, knowing the list would be long and, ultimately, merely a way for XoXaan to rile him up. She knew exactly what buttons to push to get a reaction out of him, and he inevitably ended up agreeing to follow her instructions every time.

 _Good. Then, may we proceed?_ she asked in that slightly condescending tone she always used against him whenever he decided to grow some morals.

Harry sighed. His master was nothing if not relentless, and though her lessons bordered on the horrifying, he had more than once seen them bear fruit.

"Yes, Master."

 _Very good, apprentice. This technique is colloquially known among the wielders of the Dark Side as Force Choke. Pay attention, lest you break your own neck._

The horrifying thing right now was that he wasn't sure whether she was kidding or not.

He chose to think she was not.

* * *

Waiting for the Dursleys to come back was almost torture for Harry — never in his life had he expected there to be a day where he would almost _look forward_ to it.

However, XoXaan had laid down an ultimatum he could not ignore: either he stood up to his tormentors, or she would refuse to aid him any further. Torn between doing something he _thought_ was wrong and losing his sole companion, Harry had opted for what he perceived to be the lesser of two evils.

And, really, the Dursleys deserved this.

However, as time passed by, he began to wonder who would be his first victim. Would he be forced (pun intended) to choke his aunt first? Or would it be Vernon? Maybe Dudley, if he decided to come home early?

Oh, he hoped it was Vernon. With all the times the rotund man had hurt him, a growing part of Harry wanted to pay him pack in kind _dearly_. So much so, in fact, that by the time he heard the keys jingling on the other side of the front door, he was almost grinning in anticipation.

The Force must've been with him then, because the moment the door opened up, he was treated with the sight of his uncle trudging in, looking tired and a bit irritated. Good — if he decided to insult him, Harry could use the anger to fuel his newfound skill.

Vernon froze at the sight of his nephew standing there in the living room, staring at him. "What're you doing out of your cupboard, boy?" he growled irritably. "Is dinner set?"

Harry's eyes traced his every movement as he shrugged off his coat and placed it on the coat hanger. "No, Uncle Vernon."

Vernon scowled at him. "Useless boy. Can't you do anything right?" he snapped, advancing past his nephew to put his briefcase on the couch. He then whirled around to glare at Harry. "Well? Don't just stand there! Kitchen! Now!"

Harry never broke eye contact, staring at him in what he supposed might've been an eerie fashion. "I'm afraid not, Uncle Vernon," he responded just as calmly as last time.

Good — he could see his uncle purpling up. Vernon was unused to seeing defiance in his nephew, and Harry knew that one thing he could not tolerate was Harry speaking back at him. " _What_ did you just say?" he asked in a low, dangerous whisper that made his mustache bristle.

"I said I'm afraid not, Uncle Vernon," Harry repeated himself respectfully. "I will not be cooking any longer in this house."

Before Harry could properly register how a man as large as Vernon Dursley could move that fast, he felt a stinging pain in his cheek that quickly spread to his neck, the force of Vernon's slap causing a bit of whiplash. Even worse was the coppery taste of his own blood — his lip had split from the blow.

"Insolent _freak_!" Vernon practically spat the second word. "Ungrateful wretch! Did you forget _who_ took you in after your worthless parents _died_? Who's fed you over the years, given you a _roof_ over your head?!"

Anger swelled in Harry — more anger than he ever thought possible. Fed him? Housed him? Harry wanted to laugh; perhaps given the amount of chores he did in the house, it would've been more accurate to say that _Harry_ fed them and kept the roof in one piece. He certainly cleaned everything, cooked everything. It was practically a wonder these idiots could even survive by themselves!

"I am not your _slave_ , uncle!" he hissed as he wobbled back onto his feet, glowering at his aunt's husband. Even calling him uncle left a very, very nasty taste in his mouth.

Vernon again tried to slap him, but this time, Harry was ready. Recalling XoXaan's lesson about curling the Force around the target's neck, he raised his hand in a cupping fashion at his uncle and was gratified to see his uncle stop in his tracks.

For all of a second.

Almost immediately thereafter, the man swung his hand again, and though Harry was able to dodge most of it, it still caused his cheek to flare up again. Hissing as he fell to his knees, he wondered why the technique had failed. Had XoXaan taught him wrong? Sabotaged him? Why hadn't it worked?!

"Worthless _freak_!" Vernon yelled at him as he stood over Harry's hunched over figure. "Trying one of your freak tricks on me?! I will not have it in this house!"

As Harry heard the telltale sound of a belt being slipped off, he felt his anger transform into impotent fury as he readied himself for the inevitable blow. As soon as it did, it was all he could do not to let out a strangled cry.

Why? What hadn't the technique worked? What had he done wrong?!

Even as he felt the stinging blow of the belt hitting his back and buttocks, Harry could distantly hear his guardian hurling insults at him. It seemed like ages passed as he was brutally whipped with his uncle's wide, leathery belt.

And all Harry could do was wonder where things had gone wrong. Had he made a mistake listening to the crazy ghost lady? Had he just doomed himself to an even more painful life?

 _You still doubt your power, apprentice._

' _Master?_ ' he thought in confusion. Even now, he could almost feel the infuriated power radiating from the device hidden under the floorboards in his cupboard.

 _You cannot hope to best even a simpleton like that oaf if you do not trust in your own power. Trust in your fury, in your hate: **channel** it into your power, and __**will**_ _ **it**_ _to happen! Command the Force to_ _ **strike down**_ _your enemies!_

Snapping open his eyes, Harry scowled at his uncle, teeth bared in anger as blow after blow hit him. The sight seemed to infuriate Vernon even further, and as he reeled back the belt for another, more potent blow, Harry lashed out with his arm, hand once again in cupping form.

"You _dare_ use your _fre—_ "

To Harry's wonder, Vernon stopped midsentence, his free hand reaching up for his throat as he gave an audible choke. Soon, his other hand flew to his throat as well, letting the belt drop harmlessly onto the floor.

Harry slid himself up against the wall and sat there, watching in horrified entrancement as his uncle now purpled up for an entirely different reason. He almost winced as the large man fell to his knees, panic and pain glaringly obvious in his eyes. It _almost_ made Harry pity him.

 _Almost_.

The pain of his beating still fresh in his mind, Harry slowly drew himself up against the wall until he was on his feet, wincing at the rawness of his injuries. Limping over to his uncle, Harry glowered down at him, ignoring his aunt's husband's choking.

"I am no longer your _slave_ , uncle," he hissed. "I am no longer _defenseless_. From here on out, if you so much as _touch_ me, _I will break your neck_ ," he threatened — though the effect was slightly lost due to his childlike voice.

Despite his predicament, however, Harry could see Vernon's expression turn defiant, even as his oxygen supply cratered. Harry had to admit it — his uncle would probably remain defiantly hateful until the day he died.

"But not until I've done the same to dear Aunt Petunia and little Dudders," Harry added for good measure, feeling satisfaction when Vernon's eyes widened. Yes...that had been the man's pressure point, as XoXaan called them, all along. "Do you understand, Vernon?"

The man's shaky, albeit reluctant nod was answer enough, considering he was about to pass out from oxygen deprivation. Harry felt a rush of triumph in him as he watched his uncle essentially surrender to him.

 _Good, apprentice._

Harry almost smiled as he heard his Master's voice echo in the room. He felt pity for Vernon, being unworthy to hear his Master's praise.

 _Now, release him. His death would not serve us at this juncture._

Almost regretfully, Harry complied with the order.

As Vernon collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping out for air as Harry stood there before him, Harry wondered if perhaps he should ready himself for another attack.

 _Not yet, apprentice. He has learned his lesson, for now. Return to me. In time, we will make him do whatever we wish._

Harry hesitated. There was so much he wanted to do to his uncle right now — when he was at his mercy. So much pain to pay in kind. So much anger, fury, hatred to unleash…

He wrested his mind from such thoughts, knowing XoXaan was not someone to ignore. Even if she could not hurt him, there were other ways to punish him, as she had now taught him.

He spared his relative a dismissive glance before returning to his cupboard door. "Good evening, Uncle."

The panicked discussions that resulted when Petunia and Dudley returned were _music_ to his ears.

* * *

 _ **Privet Drive, England, July 23rd, 1991…**_

"Give it back, Potter!"

Harry Potter smiled slyly as he deftly dodged each one of Piers Polkiss' clumsy attempts at snatching back his prized cap — a present from his father. To Harry, it was as though the lean boy was moving in slow motion, and the look of desperation upon his rat-like face was _delicious_.

The whole affair had started when Harry had found himself alone on the swings of his local family park — a circumstance he had grown accustomed to over the years, and had come to greatly appreciate. Piers, being the singularly idiotic person he was, had apparently failed to learn the very lesson his old bestie, Dudley, had learned the hard way two years ago, when Harry had utterly broken him during a fight.

Which explained why Dudley was nowhere to be seen when Piers and the other similarly mentally challenged neighbourhood bullies stalked up to him and proceeded to verbally taunt him.

"Hey, Potter, what's it like being a freak?" Piers sneered — likely his best attempt yet at coming up with a half-worthy insult.

Even so, all it earned from Harry was a disinterested stare that merely raised the bully's hackles, as he attempted to grab him by the shirt — another lackluster attempt at physical bullying.

"Answer me, freak!" Piers demanded as he pulled Harry off the swing and onto his feet. Harry had to concede that, in terms of physical strength, the boy had an advantage over him.

"You really don't learn, do you Piers?" he asked coldly. " _Back off_."

Piers flinched as Harry's voice came out...wrong. To his ears, it sounded both like an order, and a threat. Looking around him, he saw the others he'd brought along looking a bit more affected by Harry's sudden demand, but he stood his ground.

"I don't know what sort of freaky trick you used to scare off Dudley, but it ain't working on me!" he spat right into Harry's face.

Harry closed his eyes in annoyance and sighed. "I didn't scare him off, Piers," he corrected his tormentor, prompting a confused frown from the boy. Harry then opened his eyes and glowered at him. "I just showed him who was on top."

As Harry lay a hand on Piers, the rat-faced boy flinched as the coldness of Harry's skin touching his, giving his "prey" the opening he needed to slip out of his grip. Tidying himself up, Harry looked quite bored with the proceedings, though he was a bit irritated at how Piers had dared lay a hand on his new clothes — a gift from Vernon and Petunia after he... _reminded_ them what he was capable of.

XoXaan had been right all along — bullies respected the language of power.

Sliding his feet into the stance XoXaan had taught him a bit awkwardly — his teacher had conceded that many of the Sith fighting disciplines were designed for people older than he — he kept his hands at his side as he observed the group of bullies surrounding them.

Honestly, he'd sort of missed this.

Ever since XoXaan had forced him to use Force Choke on Vernon to get his relatives to finally back off, Dudley had been a no-show on the school playground. Instead, his portly cousin had all but barricaded himself in the classrooms, refusing to go anywhere near Harry unless it was at all necessary. No amount of urging from Piers or the other bullies would get Dudley out, causing a few to wonder just what had happened to cause such a drastic change.

Of course, the memory of said event was a source of great personal validation for Harry. The look of terror on Vernon's face had been disconcerting for a moment, but as he allowed the Dark Side to flow through him, he found himself almost...enjoying the experience.

It certainly helped that the Dursleys' attempted retaliations all went horribly askew. The day after his attack on Vernon, they had bolted his cupboard door shut. After some instruction from XoXaan, Harry had simply blasted it from its hinges.

That had led to Harry getting his own room — Dudley's old toy room. His cousin had been so terrified of him that he had barely made any protest when Harry moved into it, throwing out all the boy's toys.

Every attempt since then to keep him under control was met with escalating shows of his newfound abilities, until the day came when he'd used the Force to hold Dudley aloft in front of his parents and proceeded to choke him.

Finally, they surrendered completely, as XoXaan had foreseen.

And so now, Harry could claim to have a rather comfortable life. His relatives were finally using some of their middle-class wealth on him, rather than just Dudley, and Harry no longer had much to fear from school, leading to some kids trying to make amends for abandoning him.

He forgave them publicly, of course, but resolved never to forget.

All that was left to make his life truly perfect was to deal with Piers and the other bullies for good.

"I don't want to fight," he informed Piers and the other bullies, "but if you force me to, I will. And it will _not_ end well for you."

He mused that he was starting to sound like his Master. Her lessons had certainly helped to expand what had once been a very narrow mind.

"You're daft, you are," Piers spat as he raised his fists in a classic boxing stance. For fifth graders like them, that would've been enough to show that Piers was way more skilled at fighting than Harry was.

At least, if Harry had never come across a Sith Lord's teachings.

Instead, the moment Piers threw a punch — to the cheering adulation of his buddies — Harry easily slipped past the blow and snatched Piers' cap off his head, leading to the present situation of him dancing out of the boy's grasping reach.

"It's not funny, Potter! Give it back!"

Harry smirked as he kept avoiding the boy's blows. It was fortunate that they were on vacation, and so didn't have to deal with teachers. Otherwise, he would've had to manipulate the situation so Art or some of the other teachers who were finally seeing him as his own person could react in his favour.

"Shouldn't have brought it if you can't handle losing it, Piers," he taunted as he danced around his opponent's desperate swipes. "Maybe I'll keep it...nah, too ugly. I think I know a stray that might want it as a chew toy, though."

The look of panic on Piers' face was _delicious_. He knew he was basically bullying the boy, but reasoned that it was simply poetic justice, after all the years of torment he'd put Harry through.

"Don't!" the boy yelled at him, before suddenly remembering he'd brought a gang with him. "Grab him!"

Harry rolled his eyes. Typical. Eyeing the other kids, he concentrated on the lead three before unleashing another technique XoXaan had taught him; the third of the so-called "coercive three."

Force Fear.

Piercing their undeveloped minds with the Force, Harry flooded their brains with fear beyond anything they had ever experienced before. Almost on cue, all three of the bullies fell to the ground in a heap and curled into a fetal position, crying and whimpering as illusions of their own mind tormented them.

It served its purpose, as the others in Piers' gang froze at the sight and immediately turned tail, running away. They didn't need or ask for an explanation; between Harry practically humiliating Piers and the three boys on the ground, they all got the distinct feeling they wanted none of this.

Now bereft of an audience, however, Harry could put his endgame into play. Jumping back a few steps to put some distance between him and Piers, he twirled the cap around his finger, smirking at the boy.

"You really should've listened, Piers," he said. "If I could make Dudley back off, what made you think you were going to be any better?"

Piers snarled at him but hesitated to make his move, having also seen what had happened to his three comrades. "Dudley's grown soft, that's all. Once he shakes off whatever you did to him, he'll be back to running the school, same as before!"

Harry snorted. He wouldn't count on it. At his core, Dudley was cowardly; his one and only run-in with Force Choke had practically traumatised the boy for life.

"How pathetic," Harry replied to Piers' comment. "After all this time, still hanging off Dudley's scraps. Aren't you tired of being someone's busybody?"

Piers narrowed his eyes. "Dudley's me mate."

Harry's smirk widened. "I don't see him around; do you?" he asked provokingly, still twirling the empty cap. "Such a great mate, he is: letting his _mate_ face off against big bad Potter."

He suddenly stopped twirling the cap and grasped it tightly in one hand. He ignored Piers' short yelp of indignation. "You know what I think, Piers? I think you're smarter than he is," he eyed the three boys on the ground. "Or, at least, less inept."

Piers frowned. "What're you getting at, Potter?"

Harry grinned at him. "Look, I don't much care about you or your little gang terrorising the schoolyard now that Dudder's done a runner. Honestly, it's a bit of fun for me, and if the other kids had a problem, they would've gone to the teachers long ago."

He raised Piers' cap to take a better look at it and then looked over to the boy in question. "But it's only fun as long as I'm not involved. You do you with the others, but me and mine are off limits. You swear to that, to _me_ , and I'll never have to humiliate you like I did today on the schoolyard. Deal?"

Piers eyed the hat still in Harry's hand. "And my cap?" he asked.

Harry looked at the item of clothing as though he was surprised he still had it. "I suppose I can return that, too," he agreed, holding it out to Piers. However, the moment the boy made a grab at it, he pulled back. "Uh-uh. Deal or no deal, Piers?"

The boy scowled at him, but Harry thought he could see, for the first time in his entire life, some measure of respect in the boy's eyes.

"Deal, Potter."

Harry grinned as he gave the hat back to the boy and discreetly dismissed the Force Fear effect on the three collapsed boys, who slowly started to regain control of their faculties. "Pleasure doing business with you, Piers."

* * *

 _You handled yourself well, apprentice._

As far as XoXaan was concerned, that was high praise indeed, and prompted a grateful bow of the head as he knelt before her holocron, reverently situated upon his bed. It had taken a few years of instruction for her to finally explain what the device was, and all her revelation had achieved was to imbue him with greater respect and reverence for the deceased Sith Lady.

"Thank you, Master."

XoXaan's image nodded imperiously at him. _You have learned greatly these past cycles. Your power grows with every lesson. The Dark Side favours you, apprentice. It sees a champion in you, as I did when you came across my holocron._

"You humble me, Master."

 _However._

Harry's eyes shot open as he looked up at his Master's image. The alien woman had scrunched her features, as though trying to discern something just out of sight.

 _I feel...a vergence in the Force. Something is imminent, apprentice. Something of...incredible importance to your destiny._

Long-nailed fingers came up to grasp her head in a gesture that was eerily human-like to Harry. "Master?"

XoXaan seemed to remember where she was at that moment, for the hand came down and she folded her hands before her once more. _It is nothing, apprentice. Be wary; something of import is imminent, and we must be careful. Too many times before, we Sith have lost our rightful place to momentary carelessness. We must not allow this to happen again._

Harry bowed his head once more. "Yes, Master."

 _Report to me any sudden changes or strange occurrences, apprentice. We will resume your lessons tomorrow._

Once again, Harry repeated his acknowledgement before watching XoXaan recede into the holocron. Carefully, he grabbed it with both hands and placed it behind his school books, where he knew Dudley would never look.

He wondered what XoXaan had meant by a vergence — it was not a term he was familiar with. Still, she had sounded as though there was something important about to happen. As he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he wondered what she could've meant. The only event he knew of that was imminent, as she'd said, was his birthday, but that was hardly noteworthy in this household. Like every year, the Dursleys would ignore him, or give him a token gift, and that was it.

Not like he really cared anymore, though. With his powers, he could _insist_ on something, and they would cave.

Smirking at the thought, he eyed his bedroom door and, with a small gesture, locked it. He might've put the Dursleys under his boot, but that didn't mean he trusted them not to try something while he slept.

Now securely alone with his thoughts, Harry closed his eyes, reveling in the memory of putting Piers in his place.

* * *

 _ **Privet Drive, England, July 24th, 1991…**_

The day began as normally as any other.

Harry had woken up early to continue his lessons with XoXaan, who seemed to have recovered from the previous evening's episode. Instead of even mentioning it, his teacher further revealed to him the mysteries of the Sith, informing him the time was near when he would be called upon to create the ultimate Sith tool — the _lightsaber_.

Harry couldn't lie: the very prospect made him giddy. XoXaan had taught him much about lightsabers via recorded images, and the idea of a laser sword that could cut through _anything_ made him want to squeal with delight.

However, he kept this from his master, knowing she detested such childish displays of glee.

So, for now, he absorbed all he could from her lessons in what XoXaan called "Sith Sorcery."

In all, it was pretty riveting stuff, but a bit beyond him when she went all technical on him. He tried to keep up, but a lot of it relied on advanced subject he hadn't even learned in school. Seeing this deficiency, she ordered him to seek out a library in short order to acquire the necessary information.

It was that very request that got Harry to come downstairs, despite knowing the Dursleys were still huddled around the kitchen table, eating Petunia's sub-par cooking.

It was also at that very instance that the bell rang.

"Mail's here," Harry informed them as he walked into the kitchen, startling them. Ever since he'd demonstrated his powers on them, his relatives acted as though he was a walking time-bomb...which was not an unapt comparison, really.

Vernon, in particular, seemed like he was torn between throttling his nephew or cowering in the corner. In the end, he turned to Dudley, who refused to make eye contact with Harry as his cousin hovered near the table. "Fetch it, would you, Dudders?" he mumbled.

All too glad to get an excuse to bolt from the table, Dudley ran for the door, leaving Harry with his guardians.

"I need to go to the library today," Harry informed them flatly.

Vernon and Petunia eyed each other, and Harry could practically hear the mental conversation they were silently having through body language. It basically amounted to Vernon signalling he wanted to deny Harry, and Petunia reminding him of the consequences. In the end, Harry supposed they realised that a few hours without Harry in the house would make all their lives easier.

"Fine," Vernon grunted as he stabbed a sausage with particular vigor. "We can go after I'm d—"

"Dad, what's Hogwarts?"

Harry had never seen such a drastic and amusing reaction in his life. The fork in Vernon's hand dropped onto the plate as the man's limb went slack, eyes bulging and jaw dropped. Across from him, his aunt began choking violently on the tea she'd been drinking. Dudley, for his part, had yelped in surprise at his parents' reaction from the kitchen doorway, while Harry just smirked at the scene.

"Where'd you — give me that!" Vernon all but howled as he reached for the mail and tore the offending envelope from his son's hand. "Freaks! Again, those freaks!"

Harry's interest was immediately seized. Freaks — he'd only ever used that insult on _him_ before. While Vernon had a rather expanded vocabulary for insulting virtually anyone anywhere in the world, freak had been a designation he's specially reserved for Harry.

So for him to use again, and insinuating there were _more_ people like Harry…

Curious.

"What's Hogwarts?" he asked calmly, enjoying the sudden flinches from Vernon and Petunia. Whether it was from the fear conditioning or from hearing the word, he wasn't sure. He hoped it was a bit of both — it would open up new avenues of torment for him to use.

"Nothing! It's nothing but hog—" Vernon hissed, about ready to tear the letter apart. Harry didn't much care; it honestly sounded like some sort of prank to him. After all, what place in its right mind would even use such a stupid-sounding name?

"Vernon, no!" Petunia cried out, reaching out and nicking the envelope from her husband's grubby hands. As Vernon and everyone else in the room turned to her in surprise, she flushed at the scene she was making and quickly gestured for Vernon to follow her out into the living room.

"Stay here," Vernon told both boys as he followed Petunia out.

Harry was of a mind to disobey on principle, but eyeing the suddenly terrified Dudley, decided to let it go in favour of some fun.

"Dudley," he greeted silkily. "It's been awhile since we've spoken all alone like this, hmm?"

"D-Don't hurt me, please!" the rotund boy all but begged.

Harry's smirk widened as he did an empty gesture with his hand that got Dudley to squeal in terror and huddle next to the kitchen table like a scared animal. Poetic justice for all the times he'd been terrorised by him and his gang, Harry figured.

"You know, I ran into Piers, yesterday," he informed his cousin idly. "He seems to have outgrown you. Formed his own little band of misfits, he did. Barely noticed you were gone," Harry lied smoothly.

He reveled in the whimper he heard escape from Dudley's trembling lips.

"I figure he thinks you're just a big coward now; I wonder how he'll react to seeing you once we're back at school," he added tauntingly. "I wonder if Dudley Hunting will be quite as fun as Harry Hunting. What do you think, _dear cousin_?"

Dudley's response might've interested him if he hadn't suddenly heard Petunia and Vernon's voices rise in anger — both of them. It was surprising to him because they never yelled at _each other._ In that, Harry had to give them credit: they were well matched enough that they seemingly enjoyed each other's company in hating everyone else.

A match made in hell, certainly.

"Curious," he mumbled as he eyed the closed kitchen door. He was about to go for it and intrude on the argument when the door opened itself, letting back in Petunia and Vernon, both of whom looked grumpy, but determined.

"You're not going to Stonewall come this fall," Petunia informed him primly, prompting Dudley to actually _sigh_ in relief.

Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected them to actually find the stones to deny him ongoing education, but clearly it was time to remind them who was actually in charge in this house.

Raising his hand slowly from his side, he started to point it at Dudley when Petunia and Vernon paled considerably at the sight. For his part, Dudley squealed in fright at the gesture.

"No, not like that!" Petunia quickly added. "You'll be going to a different school! A boarding school! In Scotland!"

Harry frowned. "You'll need to clarify."

Petunia handed him the envelope in her hand, and Harry took it without even a word of thanks. Eyeing the envelope, he was surprised to see it seemed to know which room was his specifically...a feeling that quickly turned to suspicion and panic. If they knew which room was his, what else did they know? Did they know about the holocron? Was this meant to intimidate him?

Hastily opening the letter, he eyed the contents therein, at which point his dread gave way to confusion, scepticism, and finally, amusement.

"This is a joke in rather poor taste, isn't it?" he asked archly as he eyed his guardians. Two reasons made him consider that he was perhaps mistaken about the veracity of the letter — Vernon turned green, and Petunia looked like she'd never been more disgusted in her life.

"It's real," Petunia managed to get out through gritted teeth. "All of it."

Harry snorted. "Magic, aunt Petunia? A place called _Hogwarts_? Come now — nobody in their right mind would attend a place with such a preposterous name."

For a minute, he could've sworn he'd seen a faint smile on his aunt's face.

"While I agree these fr— _people_ do seem to lack common sense, they are nonetheless real...Harry," Petunia informed her nephew. "I should know: your mother was one of them."

In all 11 years of his life, Harry had basically heard his aunt speak of his parents exactly five times, and each time had been the same story: they were drunks, his mother was a whore, and they died in disgrace in a car accident.

So to hear her now say his mother had been a _witch_ …

Harry glowered at his guardians. "If this is another way to insult my parents..." he warned.

Vernon seemed about ready to shout, before Petunia put her hand on his arm. "Vernon, please take Dudley into the living room. I need a few minutes with...Harry."

Harry patiently waited for Vernon and Dudley to clear out before eyeing his aunt, who seemed to be struggling with some secret truth she didn't exactly want to let out, but knew she had to.

"My mother was a witch?" he prompted.

Petunia sighed. "Yes," she admitted. "And your father was a wizard," she added for good measure. "They didn't die in a car crash: they were murdered."

The revelation was a blow to Harry, but training under XoXaan had taught him him to compartmentalise his emotions. Taking a deep breath to restrain his fury at being jerked around all this time regarding his parents, he kept his gaze on his aunt. "Prove it."

"I can't," Petunia admitted. "When we took you in, Vernon and I swore we'd never have anything to do with your parents' world," she explained. "We didn't even want to keep you; we even considered giving you up for adoption."

Harry could easily believe that, considering the "love" he had been showered with all this time. "Why didn't you?" he asked.

Petunia's face scrunched up with barely disguised hatred. It did nothing to improve her already equine looks. "A...wizard who taught your parents told us we couldn't. Insisted upon it. We didn't want their kind involved in our lives anymore than was necessary, so we agreed so long as he stayed away."

Harry was hard pressed to believe her, but something — the Force, maybe — was telling him to take her at her word. Perhaps, instead of being a witch and wizard, his parents had been Force users, like him? He would have to discuss this with XoXaan.

"So this...place. Hogwarts. It's real?" he asked for final clarification. "It's a school for people...like me?"

Petunia flushed at the idea but slowly nodded. "As I said: your parents were both students of this institution."

Harry nodded, trying to process all this new information. He then re-read the letter, and the second page. "This says I need materials...a wand? Cauldron? Surely they can't be serious," he asked bemusedly, only to realise from Petunia's expression that this was true as well.

"Where on earth am I supposed to get such silly things?" Harry asked.

Petunia, for once seemed at a loss. "I don't know; like I said, I want nothing to do with...your world," she hissed.

Harry shrugged. "And what's this about an owl?" he pressed.

"It's how... _they_ communicate," Petunia clarified with a strangled voice. Clearly, this topic was distressing her...which made it all the more fun for Harry. Still, he had much to discuss with XoXaan, so he had to cut his fun short.

"Alright," he declared at long last, prompting a confused, almost desperate look from his aunt.

"Alright, what...Harry?" she asked tentatively.

"I'll think about going," he clarified with a malicious grin. He understood full well why Petunia wanted him to go — it had nothing to do with his heritage; she just wanted him out of the house and out of their hair. While he was tempted to do so for his own reasons, he had a Master he needed to consult first.

Still, the horrified look on his aunt's face made the comment worth it, he mused, as he passed by her and returned to his room. There, he locked the door and quickly retrieved XoXaan's holocron, placing it on his bed as he knelt before it.

"Master, I have news," he spoke.

He waited for a moment for the Force presence of his teacher to materialise before him.

 _Speak, apprentice._

"I believe the event you foresaw has come to pass, Master," he informed her, raising the letter up for her to see. Despite this, he knew she could not yet read English, by her own admission. "It is an invitation to a school of magic."

He could practically hear the sneer. _Magic? Primitive gibberish._

Harry didn't disagree, but pressed on. "Master, it appears my parents were both magic-users."

 _Where did you come by this information? You have not been away long enough to have reached the library and conducted research already._

Harry shook his head. "No, Master. My guardians informed me of the truth of my parentage upon learning of this invitation," he explained. "I believe they wish for me to attend this school to relieve themselves of my presence."

 _As they should, given the fear we have brought to this hovel._ XoXaan eyed him studiously. _What does the Force tell you, apprentice? Are they lying?_

"No, Master," Harry answered immediately. "But...Master, does that mean there are more Force users other than me on this world?"

 _The Force is rarely confined to a single being wherever it chooses to manifest, apprentice. If you have been told the truth, then we must be ever more cautious now. We cannot brook any rivals to the rise of our Order._

Harry nodded. "Yes, Master."

XoXaan eyed him for a while longer, clearly reaching some sort of decision. _Apprentice, this revelation will necessitate changes to your instruction._

Harry looked up at his teacher. "How, Master?"

XoXaan gestured at the holocron. _We must accelerate your training; we cannot risk you being defenseless among other Force users. The time has come for you to take the next step in becoming a Lord of the Sith._

Harry felt excitement bubbling within him. Surely, she couldn't mean…?

 _You will go to this school, and you will learn what they know, so that we may plan accordingly for the ultimate victory of our Order._ XoXaan informed him. _But before you do, you will forge the great weapon of your predecessors, to carry out the fury and will of the Sith._

 _Apprentice, it is time for you to forge your lightsaber._


	3. Galactic Economics For Dummies

**_AN:_** _Chapter III is now live! Next up, working on Emperor's newest chapter. Hopefully, this'll mean I'm back on track...but don't get your hopes up, honestly._

* * *

When Harry had been informed by Owl Mail that he would be picked up by a guardian, of sorts, to take him shopping for his materials — being given the same consideration as other Muggle-born wizards/witches after he informed the school of his present ignorance of all things magical — he had no expected his guardian to be so...conspicuous.

"Hello, Mister Potter. I am Professor Aurora Sinistra, from Hogwarts," the woman introduced herself while standing in the doorway. It would've been fine, were it not for the fact that she had apparently opted to wear the most hideous combination of neon coloured clothing he had ever seen. Decked out in neon-lime-green track pants and a hot pink jumper that had the word "Love!" haphazardly stitched on the front, she looked like a walking billboard for a thrift shop with exceptionally bad taste. "I'm here to pick you up for your shopping trip?"

Harry glanced back at the door that led to his room, comforted in the knowledge he'd locked it tight, before looking back at the professor — hoping against all things that they wouldn't be seen together for very long in public, if this was her choice of style.

"I'm ready to go, Professor," he responded courteously with a nod, before noticing the distinct lack of transportation along the road. "I'm sorry, Professor, but do I need to call a cab, or are you parked nearby…?"

The Hogwarts professor smiled and waved away his concerns. "That's quite alright, Mister Potter," she assured him. "Merely take my hand, and we'll be away."

Odd, but given the circumstances, Harry decided to play it reckless and trust that the woman knew what she was doing...even if she couldn't apparently match clothing. The moment he touched her, however, he felt his entire being squeeze itself into what felt like a tiny tube, but before he could react appropriately, his vision cleared up, and he saw himself in the midst of what seemed like a very busy alley...right out of the Middle Ages.

Had they? Did she…? How had she _done_ that?

"Welcome...to Diagon Alley!"

Returning his focus to the matter at hand (while making a mental note to inform XoXaan of what had just happened), Harry had never felt quite so disappointed, and yet intrigued, in his life.

Gazing upon the British Wizarding World's most famous street, Harry couldn't help but shine a critical eye upon what he saw. In XoXaan's tales of the Sith and the Jedi, she had regaled him with stories of entire planets covered by singular cities, or worlds with floating landmasses. The way she had described these civilisations, and the way Force-sensitives were predisposed to lead these civilisations, had arguably made him develop high standards for the Wizarding World.

Clearly, he'd expected too much.

The entire "alley" was some sort of pastiche of Medieval and Mid-20th century architecture, and the signs outside were simply anachronistic at this stage. To compound the matter, everyone appeared to be decked out in antiquated robes — not unlike those occasionally worn by XoXaan's image, when she donned the mantle of Sith Lord to remind him of his place. Still, despite the similarities, XoXaan wore the robes to show off her power; these people wore them like they were a jacket. It was...underwhelming.

Still, it was worth keeping it together long enough for Sinistra to show him and the gaggle of other Muggleborns she'd apparently had waiting for them the rest of the main Alley...though, once she explained where the main entrance of the Alley was located, he wasn't quite sure about the wisdom of placing the entrance in some walled off section of a London pub.

It seemed like a public perception problem waiting to happen.

"Oh, there's no risk of that, Mr. Potter," Sinistra assured him after he'd asked. "The Leaky Cauldron is warded against Muggle interest."

"Warded, professor?" a bushy-haired girl nearby asked. He eyed her for a second before returning his attention to Sinistra; nothing about the girl seemed particularly interesting. Perhaps a bit overeager to ask questions.

Sinistra nodded as she looked at the other Muggleborn students as well. All of them seemed confused by the word. "A ward is a special spell we set up around particular objects or places, able of performing a specific action," she explained with a smile. "In the Cauldron's case, it ensures that Muggles never feel the desire to look at what's going on near the pub. To them, even if a gryffon were to land in front of the pub, they would never bother to look at it."

Harry's eyes widened fractionally as he absorbed that information. That seemed like an incredibly useful application of magic — far beyond anything XoXaan had described to him. He would have to ask his Master about it later.

Despite his eagerness to learn more about these spells, however, Sinistra was dedicated to her job of showing the Muggleborn around the Alley, making all the appropriate stops so they could gather their supplies. Some of them sounded rather useless — what on earth would he need a cauldron for? Given their size and shape, it seemed to him that a conventional, stainless steel pot would do just the trick. The same could be said of many of the ingredients he was supposed to acquire for...alchemical purposes, he supposed, given the names of the shops.

However, the last straw were the quills and parchment. He could deal with the cauldron and the other miscellaneous items the school was figuratively cramming down his throat, but he drew the line at quills and parchment. They were inefficient and simply outdated.

"Professor, is there some reason why Hogwarts does not use regular paper?" he asked as calmly as he could when Professor Sinistra finished informing them of the supplies they could purchase at the stationary store. "Or pens, for that matter?"

To his dismay, it seemed as though Professor Sinistra was quite taken aback by the question — and not just because of her ignorance, but because it also meant that generations of Muggle-borns had come before him without anyone asking. He feared for his species.

"Well…" she started, sound the most uncertain he'd ever heard her today. Looking over at his fellow Muggleborns, he could see sparks of curiosity in their eyes, as though they had been wanting to ask the same. "I…"

"You've mentioned that technology appears to malfunction around magic," Harry pressed, "and yet paper and pens use no electricity for them to malfunction, and would not require skinning animals senselessly or the use of inefficient ink pots to continue writing."

He was dimly aware of the fact that the bushy-haired girl in the group seemed torn between admiration and disapproval. The other kids were merely nodding along, although a few seemed confused by his mention of animal skinning.

"Therefore, is there any reason why we should not merely skip this part of the visit in order to focus on more pressing and worthwhile acquisitions, such as our wands?" he pointed out reasonably.

As he waited for the professor to respond (and he estimated good odds that she'd just end up agreeing with him and moving them along, if only to stop him from completely dismantling Magical society rhetorically), he eyed the people in the stationary shop and noticed the uncomfortable looks of the store employees. Eyeing the few customers inside, and then back at his group, a realisation began to take shape as XoXaan's teachings clicked.

It was _business_. There was no other explanation for it, really. Tradition only served well when it was useful, and parchments and inked quills were hardly that. On the other hand, the stationary shops in this seemingly retrograde world would be entirely unable to compete with all the stores that sold regular paper and pens in the Muggle world, as they called it. Moreover, having to adopt Muggle pens, pencils, and paper would require them to actually interact with the Muggle world, which, given the Professor's hideous outfit, they were poorly equipped to do. By enforcing the need for parchment and quills, it guaranteed business to otherwise obsolete shops.

It was all so... _banal_.

"I...believe you've made your point, Mister Potter," the Professor conceded with a nod, shooing the group out while shooting back what Harry guessed was an apologetic look at the store employees.

He didn't understand why, though. This shop, like so many others he was seeing today, were clearly obsolete. He'd gone shopping often enough with Aunt Petunia for groceries (back before XoXaan had set him free of the Dursleys' abuse) to know that roughly 60% of the things they sold in Diagon Alley had a better, improved version waiting just a few streets away, in the Muggle world. The 40% that he couldn't find analogues for, he presumed had some sort of magic involved in their creation.

"Why did you do that?"

Harry snapped back to reality, noticing he'd fallen behind the group. He then belatedly realised he was not walking alone at the back: the bushy-haired girl from before was fixing him with an intense stare he was completely unable to read, much to his frustration.

"Did what?" he asked.

"Question the supplies list."

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Was she criticising? Curious? Perhaps a mix of both? Best play it safe. XoXaan had warned him hundreds of times about keeping his abilities — mental, physical, and metaphysical — close to the chest.

"I don't fancy having to write on dead animal skin," he answered plainly. "And having to dip my quill in ink every five minutes seems like a waste of effort."

There. Maybe now she would come to see him as just a lazy, squeamish brat, instead of someone she should take notice of.

"I don't believe you," she stated flatly.

Harry shrugged. "That's really not my problem," he pointed out reasonably. "You asked, and I gave you an answer. Whether you like it or not isn't really my concern."

The girl harrumphed, and sped up to catch up with the rest of the group. Harry didn't mind — it left him alone with his thoughts, which were currently full of self-recrimination. XoXaan had warned him to stay under the radar, and he had let his temper get the best of him, making a scene where he should have remained quiet. While his arguments were true, it now also made him a person to watch for at least Professor Sinistra, and perhaps that bushy-haired girl, too.

That was...problematic, especially considering that for the Grand Plan to work, he had to remain out of the spotlight.

Thoughts about how best to regain his obscurity within the group plagued him throughout the entire wand acquisition experience, meaning he paid most of what the old man in the store had told him, other than to give him the occasional grunt of agreement or a nod. He later recalled that the man had seemed quite put out by his seeming lack of interest in the whole thing.

Again, not really his problem. When one's master tells you of wars and feats that spanned _galaxies_ , the materials and provenance thereof in a wand really paled in comparison in terms of significance, in his opinion. Instead, he set the wand box into his bags (which were amazingly charmed to be quite larger inside than on the outside, as well as light as a feather!) and followed the group from one shop to the next, never making any moves or giving any opinions that might catch one's attention.

By the end of the experience, he was quite confident that his fellow future schoolchildren had quite forgotten about his outburst, save for the one girl, and even Professor Sinistra appeared to have judged his attitude to be a product of his Muggle upbringing.

A tad bigoted, in his opinion, but convenient.

"Well, then," Sinistra said at the end of their tour, "I hope you've all had a good learning experience while you gathered your school materials."

All the kids nodded, prompting a slightly curt one from Harry as well to fit in. The bushy-haired girl eyed him suspiciously. Damn her.

"Now, then. Your parents will be waiting outside the Leaky Cauldron," she reminded them. "Except for you, of course, Mister Potter. I believe your guardians requested you be dropped off?"

Harry repressed a snort. They'd requested no such thing. Hell, they hadn't even written the letter to Hogwarts informing them of his acknowledgement of the acceptance letter. He doubted they would've sent such an accommodating woman as Sinistra if he'd let them write it.

He nodded at his temporary guardian.

"Just as well," Sinistra said with a smile, having seemingly put out of her mind his earlier episode. "I believe we have a few additional stops we must make, given your circumstances."

That intrigued Harry, but he merely nodded in response as the other children were shooed through to the Leaky Cauldron. When Sinistra returned to his side, she held out her hand to him, and he wondered if it was a sign they had to teleport again.

It was not. She was merely treating him like a child.

Harry fought back his indignation and outrage at being led around by the hand, keeping as innocent a smile as he could on his face as the older woman led him back down into Diagon Alley towards the building at the end, where the path split into two other streets. There stood an imposing building of old, yet elegant architecture, with two human guards standing at its doors.

It would've looked completely normal for Muggle London, were it not for the fact that the pillars in the building's facade were _crooked_. A glance above the porch quickly informed him of the building's purpose.

Gringotts Bank.

Well, at least _there_ was a sensible thing to see. Good to know even Wizards understood the importance of a market economy.

* * *

Harry took it back. Wizards understood nothing.

The visit to Gringotts had buoyed his hopes that perhaps Magical society wasn't as utterly insane as he'd first thought. Unfortunately, it seemed as though every person he met in this bizarre new world was out to prove that first analysis correct.

First, he'd been treated to the sight of Goblins. While XoXaan had pretty much blasted away any notions that humans were the only species around, he had to get used to these dwarf-sized demi-humans walking around in suits and apparently counting _actual gold coins_ using _balances_. Then came his identification (which was a relief, since it meant they actually understood the possibility of fraud), which quickly led him to being taken into what was essentially a _mining cart_ , and then sent on the most ridiculous roller coaster ride in his life.

What kind of bank _was_ this?! He'd gone with Petunia to a bank before (not entirely willingly), and he'd seen his aunt carry out business there. He had expected the teller to simply give him a bank statement, or allow him to make a withdrawal... _anything_ but this sort of lunacy!

On the flip side, however, he found out he was sort-of rich.

Not country-breaking rich, but wealthy enough that he was sure Vernon would've burst a blood vessel if he'd known about this.

Fortunately, he did not.

Or was it unfortunate? He would've rather liked to see Vernon suffer an aneurysm from knowing his nephew was many times richer than his guardians.

In any case, it certainly made several aspects of XoXaan's Grand Plan far more doable now.

"Your family is quite old in our world, Mister Potter," Sinistra informed him, valiantly trying to keep a straight face now she'd seen his money. Harry had to give her credit for that. "And quite wealthy, as you can see. All of this is now yours by right."

Harry nodded, belatedly remembering to look awed at all this money. It wasn't hard — he was actually quite ecstatic at how much he had to work with to advance the return of the Sith.

"You should be responsible, of course," Sinistra continued, using her best "professor" tone, "and never use more than you need. This is, after all, the fruit of generations of your family's labours."

For once, he agreed with his minder. The temptation to blow all this money into ushering in the Grand Plan immediately was fierce, but he knew that he was far from ready to assume the mantle of Dark Lord of the Sith.

"Of course, professor," he said as he burned the image of his vault into his mind. A thought occurred then. "Professor, were the funds you used to pay for my materials drawn from here?" he asked.

Sinistra nodded. "Naturally, Mister Potter: as Headmaster Dumbledore ordered. Until you claimed your vault, as the executor of your parents' will, he maintained trusteeship over it."

Harry nodded as he made a mental tally of all he could see. He would have to inform XoXaan later of this unexpected boon to their cause. She would probably be interested to find out about Dumbledore's relationship with the vault, too, even if he couldn't quite understand what the man's role was.

"Well, then, I believe this should be all for today, yes?" Sinistra said as they returned to the bank lobby. "Shall I Apparate us back to your home, Mister Potter?"

Harry wondered about that. Logically, he was done here, but there _was_ one thing he wanted to check out before calling it a day.

"Professor, before we go, do your people sell crystals?" He asked.

XoXaan's decision to advance his training to the point of creating a lightsaber had been more than just a vote of confidence in his abilities: it was also a gesture of trust. Trust that he could find the components he needed; trust that he scrap together one of the deadliest weapons in the world without drawing undue attention to himself and with minimal help from her.

He wasn't about to let his master down.

Sinistra, of course, looked quite surprised at the question. "Not regularly," Sinistra answered, looking quite bemused. "Other than baubles, really. Might I ask why you are interested?"

Harry shrugged. He decided to lean on his go-to answer for those unaware of his actual living conditions. "I just wanted to get something special for my family to remember this day," he half-lied. He fully expected them to curse this day in the future, once his weapon was complete.

Sinistra, of course, bought his excuse hook, line, and sinker. For all their power, these magical beings appeared to be quite naive, or at least seemed to have a romanticised notion of what his home life was like. He had noticed with some alarm, for instance, that the bookstore appeared to have an entire section dedicated to his life.

Which was odd, considering he would've remembered reporters and authors hounding him and the Dursleys for details.

In any case, he was soon brought before a small shop nestled between what seemed to be a bistro and a clothing shop — not the robes nonsense from Madame Malkins, but actual normal wear (he presumed Muggleborn involvement). Inside, he almost reeled from the overpowering scent of incense permeating the atmosphere, and was beginning to regret asking Sinistra to bring him here.

"Ah, welcome, welcome!" An airy, male voice welcomed them from the counter. Narrowing his eyes as he tried to look through the dense smog of incense smoke, Harry managed to identify the store's proprietor — a lanky man with _way_ too long hair that was clearly past its due date with a decent shower. "Here to get a crystal for your jewels, ma'am?" He asked Sinistra directly.

From the looks of her, Sinistra seemed no more pleased in being here than he was, but she managed to hide it better. "No," she replied flatly, motioning to Harry. "I am merely here to accompany my charge on his business. He wishes for a crystal."

Harry could see the obvious disappointment in the man's gaze as he turned to look at him, and figured it'd be best to cut the imminent lack of respect at its root. Taking out his bag of Galleons, he jiggled it to get the man's attention. "I am more than capable of paying for my interests, sir," he informed the man coolly.

As expected, the man's demeanour changed completely at the sound of money, and quickly ushered Harry from crystal to crystal, showing off his best stock. Instead of going for the most expensive one, however, Harry kept XoXaan's teachings in mind.

 _The crystal is the soul of the lightsaber, apprentice. If it does not resonate with you, with the Force, it would serve no better use than that of a decoration._

He knew she'd been deliberately obtuse about the meaning of her words, but Harry was pretty sure he understood; in short, don't pick the prettiest or most expensive one, but rather the one that called to him.

So far, however, none of these were really calling his attention. All of them seemed like gaudy trinkets waiting to be set into even more gaudy jewelry. It wasn't until the man was seemingly at the edge of his patience, and they'd reached the uncut crystal section, that Harry felt something resonate in the Force.

He stood rigidly still as he felt the Force sing out to him, coming from his left. Slowly turning, his eyes fell upon what seemed like a giant, uncut ruby. No, that wasn't it. Frowning, he moved closer to it, ignoring the man's protests, and looked around it. The sensation of being called to grew stronger.

He frowned as he looked to the sides of the ruby, and finally, as his eyes fell upon it, he felt the Force sing out in exultation.

There, lying between the uncut ruby and an even larger slab of jade, was a blood-red diamond.

"What about this one?" Harry asked, pointing at it.

The vendor looked nervous all of a sudden, and shot glances at Sinistra. "I'm...I fear that may not be the best choice, dear customer," he fretted. "That piece has been said to be cursed."

Sinistra was at Harry's side immediately, shielding him from the gemstone. "Cursed?" She asked.

The vendor shrugged. "It could be nothing," he admitted, "but those who've owned it have all allegedly had a string of bad luck affect them. The last person I sold it to broke his leg after the charms on his broomstick gave out."

The look Sinistra shot the man told Harry volumes about the severity of that accident. If he had to guess, it wasn't that common for broomstick charms (which sounded ridiculous by itself) to "give out."

More to the point, he rather doubted claims of "curses" on principle. From what he could tell, the red diamond was certainly infused with the Force, but other than that, he could feel no malevolence coming from it. Perhaps the Force had simply been trying to keep it out of anybody else's hands until he had come to claim it?

Either way, he wanted it.

The problem was getting Sinistra to agree, now that the vendor had played up its "spooky" reputation. It was not an argument he wanted to have, especially knowing she would likely report this back to her boss, and it wouldn't do for the Headmaster of the school he'd be attending for the next seven years to be all that interested in him.

Frowning mentally, he agreed to move on from the red diamond and chose a rather bland-looking, jade gemstone instead. He didn't really want it, but he couldn't leave empty-handed, not after that whole schtick about getting his family a souvenir. He'd pawn it later off, he supposed.

Thus, with his purchases complete, Harry was quickly led back out into Diagon Alley, at which point, having no further excuses to avoid going back home, he allowed Sinistra to Apparate them back to Privet Drive.

At least he'd have a lot to tell XoXaan.

* * *

 _This is troubling, Apprentice_.

"Master?"

Harry had just finished informing XoXaan of his observations of Gringotts, and what Sinistra had told him about his account. Once he had, XoXaan had grown grim, as well as annoyed.

 _This man, Dumbledore: he wields influence beyond his station. Though your letter claims he is but the head of a school, it is clear that he, like a Jedi Master, is also capable of interfering in affairs beyond his institution._

Harry sneered at the mention of the Jedi. His Master had told him all about them — the hypocrites who would've sealed away his emotions, forced him to become a drone for the "Light" — always blinded by their precious "greater good," rather than admitting the reality before them. If Dumbledore reminded her of them, Harry knew this man was no potential ally, but rather an enemy.

 _You must find a way to cut his access to your account, Apprentice._

"You fear he can take my money, Master?" He asked.

XoXaan's image shook its head. _If your report is accurate, then he is not capable of stealing what is yours, but he can, at least, monitor it. We cannot afford this sort of oversight, not when the Plan depends on your newfound wealth._

Harry nodded. "Then, it _will_ be of service?"

XoXaan nodded. _Undeniably, Apprentice. Though you are still too young to properly use it, these funds will allow us to undermine the fools who have stagnated the powerful on this world._

"I understand, Master," he said.

XoXaan watched him for a moment before raising one of her long, pointed nails at him. _Tell me more of this crystal you found in the jeweler's shop, Apprentice._

Harry provided his recollection dutifully, leaving nothing out. He watched as XoXaan's interest grew with every passing sentence, until she had an evil smile upon her face.

 _The Force serves you well, Apprentice_ , his Master informed him. _That you would so easily stumble upon a kyber crystal_.

"Master, my research indicates it is called a red diamond," Harry noted.

The Sith Master waved her hand dismissively. _Just as your magic is but a primitive word for the Force, so too is the name your people have assigned this crystal irrelevant. Very few crystals throughout the galaxy will ever reverberate with the Force. That you have found one is serendipitous indeed, given your current limitations._

Harry scowled at the floor as he was reminded of his current inability to build one of the fabled lightsabers. After being told the components, he had asked around for these parts, and even ended up having to describe them...to no luck. The technology to create such a device was beyond anything Earth had seen so far. In fact, only the Sith Holocron before him was as advanced as that.

"I _will_ achieve my goal, Master," Harry vowed.

His Master nodded. _Yes, you will, Apprentice. After consulting the available information in my databanks, I have found a recording of a fellow Sith who was once stuck on a pre-Industrial world with a malfunctioning lightsaber._

XoXaan's image disappeared, replaced by a still image of a male creature with twin head-tails resting against a rock, a broken lightsaber next to him.

 _The knowledge you will gain from this ought to help you in acquiring alternative materials, until such a time as you are capable of producing a genuine lightsaber_.

Harry bowed his head. "You honor me greatly with this aid, Master."

XoXaan's image reappeared, glaring down at him. _Remember this well, Apprentice: it is no aid. It is no crutch. I do not do this out of the goodness of my heart, but because you require these tools to ensure the resurgence of the Sith._

She pointed at the bedroom door. _Were I still alive, I would have already had you slaughter those insects you share a home with. Were I alive, Apprentice, you would have already killed. Do you know why I have not, Apprentice?_

Harry kept his head bowed — he could tell his Master was quite irritated.

 _Because the plan demands it so. If questions arose now, before we are ready, our enemies would seek to break our bond, and the truth that is the Sith would disappear from this planet,_ XoXaan reminded him, pointing a long nail right at his forehead. _That is why I do not want you to worry about the crystal just yet. Any moves on our part to obtain it at this juncture would bring more attention than is safe for us._

"Understood, Master," Harry acknowledged.

 _Instead, Apprentice, we will work on furthering your studies of the Force. Until such a time as you are able to build the lightsaber, at least. Show me what reading materials you've acquired, and I will provide direction where your primitive magic fails to understand the might of the Force._

Harry nodded as he pulled out book after book from his shopping bags, arranging them in front of XoXaan's holocron. Initially wholly unable to read anything in English or any other Earth language, the time she'd spent instructing Harry had led to a greater understanding of English, at the very least. In turn, Harry had begun to learn what XoXaan called "Galactic Basic," including a wholly new alphabet she called "Aurebesh."

 _That one_.

Harry looked over to the book XoXaan had gestured at, and read its cover. He had to suppress a groan — History of Magic. Even when XoXaan was teaching him the history of the Sith and Jedi, which was interesting to a certain point, he was hard pressed to stay awake.

"History of Magic, Master?" He asked for confirmation. She nodded.

 _It is important for us to understand the foundations upon which this Force-using community was built_ , she reminded him. _In so doing, we will know how best to undermine our enemies. Show me each page, that I may add this information to my databanks._

Harry nodded, well used to this already. In the weeks since finally beginning to understand the English language, she had made him flip pages for countless books in order to obtain a greater understanding of Earth.

Still, the choice of History of Magic made for a boring session as XoXaan absorbed all the information she could from the text — asking for clarification here and there regarding the particular meaning of a term — before making him close it and forcing him to sit on his knees as she dictated the lesson.

In a way, it was fascinating, but equally horrifying — the amusing kind of horrifying, though, where you just can't believe such a community could've actually evolved beyond living in caves.

In short, according to XoXaan's teachings, the Magical World was the product of cowardice and convenience. Instead of using their talents to lead the masses into a golden age, the wizards and witches of yore had instead huddled behind their International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, choosing to hide away instead of confronting their aggressors.

The rest read like a bad novel — the witches and wizards effectively ceased evolving, only ever delving deeper into the nature of magic — or the Force — but never anything else. Meanwhile, the Muggles, as they called them, evolved into a spacefaring race, capable of performing feats not unlike effects produced by the Force through technology. Technology that was admittedly inferior to anything XoXaan had ever seen, sure, but still enough to match some Force powers.

"Master...is this Wizarding world even worth conquering?" Harry asked by the end of the lesson.

 _Explain yourself, Apprentice._

"Their history says it all!" Harry protested, motioning to the book. "They resent change, they resent self-improvement! They would rather stick their heads in the sand than face their destiny! When we rebuild the Order, how could we rely on such weak-willed creatures?"

XoXaan nodded her head imperiously. _That is a valid concern, Apprentice_ , she conceded. _The cowardice and spinelessness of your fellow Force users is troubling, but workable. A coward will always seek to survive, no matter what they must sacrifice. That is a quality we can use to our advantage. Whether we decide to spare their miserable lives or not after the fact will be up to us._

Harry bowed his head. "I understand, Master," he conceded. "Then, what is our next lesson to be?"

XoXaan's image stared at her apprentice for a few seconds before motioning towards another large book. _Do not attempt to deceive me, Apprentice. You disagree with me._

Harry felt cold sweat start to form on his brow. He knew lying would get him cut off once more, and the last time he had gone through that isolation, he'd come close to snapping and killing the Dursleys where they stood. "Yes, Master," he confessed.

 _Explain._

Harry swallowed. "Master, these Force users may be numerous, but they are sheep, not unlike the Jedi you've taught me about," he explained. "They flock to leaders, both Light and Dark, with troubling ease. Who is to say that when we seize power, they will not just flee to the next Dark Lord or Light Lord that comes around?"

 _Your concern is understandable, Apprentice, but ultimately preventable,_ XoXaan informed him. _That is why we will not be relying upon your fellow Force users for our ultimate power, but rather these so-called Muggles._

"Master?" Harry asked, taken aback.

XoXaan fixed her apprentice with a glare. _Never underestimate the determination of a person without access to the Force, Apprentice. Even at the pinnacle of our power, the Sith always relied on the masses for military might and ingenuity. Do not presume yourself capable in all things, for that is the path of hubris._

"But are Sith not the perfect beings, Master?" He asked, recalling the Sith Lady's teachings regarding the rise of the Sith.

 _Perfect in the Force, imperfect in all else, Apprentice: that is the curse of the Sith,_ XoXaan corrected him. _Hear now my lesson, Apprentice: the lesson of Darth Sidious — the Dark Lord of the Sith who claimed to have destroyed the Jedi, only to be killed by one at the height of his hubris._

Settling in for another lesson on his great predecessors, Harry closed his eyes as he felt his Master's words flood his consciousness. He made a note to remind her later to show him the recording regarding a more primitive form of lightsabers.

 _A long time ago, in a place far, far away..._

* * *

 ** _Post-AN_** ** _:_** _Just heading off something I imagine some may decide to send me a PM about or review - Harry's ability to understand basic economics. Here goes: XoXaan is a very dedicated, very complete teacher. Both Jedi and Sith are expected to reach high standards of academic achievement, and the Sith are the most focused on that (according to Wookiepedia, anyway). Moreover, following the example of the education system of Bane's Rule of Two, XoXaan is teaching Harry **everything** he needs to know to bring down the Light - and that includes how best to manipulate the Wizarding World's financial system to their benefit (as was done by **Darth Plagueis** ). _

_Regarding XoXaan's knowledge of the events of **Darth Sidious** : given that this is XoXaan's holocron **post-** Darth Krayt, I am assuming her holocron was updated with all the information dating from the time of her holocron's creation to the Fall of the **One Sith**._

 _Cheers!_


	4. Sorting Out Problems

**_AN:_** _Next chapter out! Working on the Time Skip chapter for Emperor. LoU's next chapter is at 0% completion at this time, so I ask for a bit of patience on that end. My usual writing computer is in the shop, so I've been slowed down quite a bit._

 _Hope you enjoy it!_

 _\- MB_

* * *

King's Cross Station's Platform 9 ¾ was meant to impress. There was little doubt about that in Harry's mind. From the impressive grandeur of the antique train to the hustle and bustle of wizards and their children milling around, pets making noise and strange luggage and items dominating one's view, Harry saw the cunning in the way the entire thing was arranged.

XoXaan had once taught him that appearances could often do more damage than an actual action. As long as one understood the power of impression, it was possible to manipulate public opinion to one's benefit. It had been a skill well used by the Sith under his predecessor, Darth Bane's, Sith dynasty: the Rule of Two.

Harry had to admit: he wasn't a big fan of history, but the stories surrounding Darth Bane were riveting. From an abusive childhood to basically working as a slave, to becoming one of the most powerful Sith Lords in history. His dynasty had nearly achieved the utter annihilation of the Jedi — were it not for some unfortunate circumstances, in fact, the Sith would've finally achieved victory.

Harry couldn't deny he felt some kinship with the defunct Dark Lord, and yearned to go down as someone at least as powerful as Bane had been, if not better.

The problem, however, was that he first had to survive school, and with school came what might actually be his greatest challenge yet.

Other children.

It'd been easy enough to avoid his classmates and work alone at St. Grogory, where Dudley had done most of the work of isolating him from everyone else, while his reputation as a problem child — courtesy of the Dursleys — did the rest. Here, however, he was under orders from XoXaan to avoid such situations.

It'd been the grounds for quite the argument.

"Master, you can't be serious!" he'd protested. "These...brats will just hear my _name_ and I'll be unable to find a quiet spot for the next seven years!"

His teacher had been implacable, though. _You are_ _ **Sith**_ _, Apprentice, not some petulant child. If this challenge is beyond your abilities, then perhaps I've chosen poorly._

The chastisement was specially designed to rile him up, and it worked like a charm. Harry had snapped back at her and cursed, but in the end he had vowed to overcome this challenge. It was easy to find his conviction: the dark side was getting stronger within him with every passing day. He found the levitation tasks and other simple exercises grow substantially easier as XoXaan tried to cram every lesson she could into the few days they had left in the sanctuary (ironic as that may be) of the Dursley home.

 _Children are curious beings_ , XoXaan explained once he'd settled down. _Their constant need to know and explore things around them will ensure you are ever careful with your secrets. Remember, Apprentice: you are the last of the Sith. If you fail here, we will vanish from the galaxy._

The thought was sobering, and Harry had to admit that he felt incredible pressure to perform now that he was reminded of the stakes. Every child he passed, every parent he saw on the platform was a potential enemy — someone who might take his secrets and spread them far and wide. He couldn't afford to trust easily. If at all.

But the crowds of Platform 9 ¾ was just one challenge; the other was the sickening taste of the Light that permeated the very air, it seemed.

He wished he could bring out XoXaan's holocron here and talk to her about it, but there was no way. He would have to wait until he found a compartment and shut himself in there — he just hoped there were blinds.

Shivering in the feeling of the Light, he half-pulled, half-levitated his trunk behind him, giving the slightest impression that he was dragging his suitcase as he made his way to the train. At the steps, he stopped as he realised that there was no way a child of his stature could be expected to lift a trunk of this size onto the train wagon.

Harry stared at the trunk, then the stairs, puzzling over this dilemma. He could, theoretically, just use the Force to lift it up, but such a display would garner attention and questions he and his master could not afford. He could try just pulling at it with his natural strength, but the luggage was too heavy for him, even with the Force to help him.

"Oi, need a hand?"

"Here, let us help!"

Before Harry could react properly, twin pairs of hands took a hold of his luggage and carried it onto the wagon. His brain finally catching up, he watched as the helpful students, a pair of twins it seemed, grinned at him. He nodded in thanks.

"Thank you," he said, motioning to his luggage. "I appreciate the help."

"No worries, mate," one of the twins assured him. He motioned to his brother. "This 'ere's Fred. I'm George."

Said brother seemed affronted all of a sudden, making Harry tense up. "Oi, I'm George! _You're_ Fred!"

Harry blinked as the twins continued their little joke, unsure what to make of this. Were they making fun of him? Just joshing around? In the end, he remembered that he was supposed to fit in, and smiled in amusement — although even to him it felt forced. He made a note of avoiding these two at school.

"I'm Harry," he introduced himself simply. No sense in rocking the boat too hard by revealing his famous last name. He shook each twin's hand, trying to get a feel for their Force alignment. He managed to beat back a sneer — both were firmly immersed in the Light. "Thanks for the help, lads."

"Our pleasure!" one of the twins — Fred, he thought — replied. "You alright, then?"

Harry nodded. "I should be fine from here," he assured them, but then rose a hand. "Wait, um...what's the deal with the compartments?"

The twins shot a look at each other. "Deal?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, is it assigned seating, or…?"

The twins laughed, but not maliciously. It was clear they thought the question simply amusing. "Nah, don't worry about it none," George (he thought) told him. "You're on board early, so there should be plenty of empty compartments. If not, just ask permission before settling in."

"It's the 'polite' thing to do, we're told," his brother said using air quotes and look of overdramatic woe. "Personally, I like the blitzkrieg approach: storm in, set up shop, claim you were always there."

Harry laughed with the twins, although with none of the humor they felt. While amusing, the twins were nonetheless more pranksters than serious threats. Bidding them goodbye, he watched as they all but dashed further into the train, leaving him alone.

He took a deep breath and sighed. Just interacting with those two had been exhausting, prompting some worries over his own performance once he was forced to share a room with more students. To his relief, it seemed to him that the twins were older than him, which probably meant they wouldn't share a dorm — hopefully. Still, the books on Hogwarts had been infuriatingly vague regarding the Opening Ceremony, using the excuse of tradition to gloss over the details.

Pulling his trunk — now levitating ever so slightly again to give the illusion of wheels — he made his way down the narrow corridor of the train wagons, looking for an appropriate place to settle. It was around the third wagon that he stopped, a feeling pulling at him that he hadn't experienced since finding the kyber crystal in Diagon Alley.

The dark side was calling to him.

Narrowing his eyes, he looked around for any overt source of the feeling, without luck. Remembering his lessons, he closed his eyes and opened himself up to the Force, seeking out the source of this pull.

He tilted his head as the font of dark side power eluded him ever so slightly, as though shy and uncertain whether to reach out to him. Harry forced back a sneer — the Force wasn't something to shy away from, but rather something to _seize_.

Reaching out with his own power, he seized upon the location of the source and, eyes snapping open, resumed his walk, now with decisive purpose. He strode past the students that were also finding their own compartments, ignoring the greetings and other salutations that were exchanged. His mind was filled with singular purpose: to find the source of the dark side pulse.

By the time he'd reached his destination, Harry hadn't been sure how long had past. Maybe a minute, maybe fifteen. All he knew was that as he stood in front of the compartment door, he could feel the pulse of the dark side even clearer now — hate, jealousy, fear. A delicious cocktail of the very finest the dark side could muster.

And just like that, it was gone.

Blinking in bewilderment, Harry's hand snapped forward, sliding open the shielded compartment door forcefully. He didn't know what he'd been expecting — perhaps a hulking brute? Perhaps a frail-looking, abused child?

He didn't expect bushy hair and buck teeth, or a chubby face and a frog.

"Hello?"

The squeaked greeting hadn't come from the girl. His eyes snapped to the other occupant — a chubby boy. The boy physically recoiled at the intensity of Harry's wide-eyed, unblinking stare. Which had it been? The boy? The girl?

The girl, he recognised easily enough. She'd been the one who confronted him in Diagon Alley. Seeing her here was thus unsurprising. What _did_ catch his interest was finding out whether or not she'd been the source of the dark side pulse.

"I remember you…" she said softly, her eyes widening. "You're Harry Potter!"

"He is?!"

"We met in Diagon Alley!" the girl exclaimed, ignoring her co-occupant's outburst entirely. Harry didn't respond right away, his mind still focused on the dark side pulse from earlier. Neither of the children in front of him seemed likely candidates. Yet, the pulse had unmistakably originated here.

"Yes," he confirmed at last, eyeing her reproachfully. "Though I'd rather that wasn't announced to the entire world."

The girl had the decency to blush and mutter a "sorry." The boy, for his part, seemed awestruck at his presence. Harry weighed his options. He could just push the entire incident out of his mind and move on to find another compartment...or he could stay right here and mingle, as his master had commanded.

He was honestly tempted to just leave, but XoXaan had threatened to cut him off if he failed in this task.

"May I sit here?" he asked politely, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself to his full height — the effect was somewhat ruined by his young age and prepubescent stature, but XoXaan had drilled the importance of proper posture into him. Even if it wasn't intimidating, it would show he was serious and confident.

Both the girl and the boy nodded, with the boy offering to help him with his trunk. Considering he could not just levitate it up, he took him up on it, and together, they raised the trunk into the overhead bin.

"Thanks," Harry said a she took a seat next to the boy — the girl had seemed far too inquisitive in Diagon Alley to expect her to leave him alone now, and the added distance would hopefully dissuade her from aggressively questioning him. He turned instead to his neighbour. "I'm Harry," he introduced himself, knowing full well the girl had already blurted his name out. Hopefully no one else had been paying attention to notice.

The boy shyly took his hand and gave it a weak squeeze that almost caused Harry to snort in derision. "Neville."

Harry nodded at him and then looked back at the girl, drawing from his vague memories of her self-introduction during the Diagon Alley trip. "Her...mione, right?" he asked.

She beamed at him, clearly gratified that he'd remembered her name. Even so, her reaction was a bit much, in Harry's opinion. They'd only met once, after all, and had been more preoccupied with getting their school supplies than getting to know each other.

"Yep!" she confirmed, extending her hand. "Hermione Granger! A pleasure to meet you, Harry!"

Harry shook the proffered limb politely before letting go and settling back down in his seat, finding it remarkably comfortable for a train that clearly dated from at least the Industrial Revolution. Reaching out with his senses, he could feel the Force permeating from every pore of this contraption, reinforcing his belief that wizards were sacrilegiously casual with their use of the Force.

He reigned in his disgust, however, as he realised he'd missed a question. "Sorry?" he asked, focusing his attention back on his two new acquaintances.

"I asked, what House do you think you'll be in?" Neville repeated himself shyly.

" _I_ would think Gryffindor's a good match, don't you?" Hermione asked; once more, Harry was struck by the way she'd phrased herself. It sounded haughty on its face, but there were undertones that seemed to indicate she was asking for validation. "They're said to be the bravest and noblest around."

' _Too much like the Jedi,_ ' Harry decided then and there to avoid that House like the plague. Pushing that aside, he drew on his lessons with XoXaan. "...I think Ravenclaw," he told Neville.

There it was again. In Hermione's eyes were a spark of relief and indecisiveness that he knew he hadn't imagined. Neville, for his part, tilted his head. Clearly, that hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting.

"You like to read a lot, then?" Neville asked.

Harry shrugged. "I don't dislike it," he answered carefully, keeping part of his attention on Hermione's expression. Indeed — it seemed like it was wavering between curiosity, relief, and worry. "But mostly, I just like to learn."

Curious — Hermione's expression had turned thoughtful for a split second before she smiled. "That's really admirable," she praised before turning to Neville. "What about you, Neville?"

The boy ducked his head. "I...probably Hufflepuff, knowing my luck," he muttered.

Harry thought back to his lessons — Hufflepuff: the house of loyalty and hard work...or so the books said. If, like Harry and XoXaan, one had read between the lines, it became obvious that Hufflepuff was basically the house for rejects from the other three houses, with only a select few there actually matching the original qualities.

If Neville believed he was destined for Hufflepuff...no — it was too early to tell how true his self-evaluation was. He was undoubtedly weak willed, but he was also a child. He was once again thankful for his master's instruction — had XoXaan not taught him the ways of the Sith and forced him to mature faster, he might've taken Neville's words at face value. Now, though, he chose to wait and see.

"Perhaps," he agreed, causing the boy's shoulders to droop. "Or perhaps not."

Neville's head slowly came up. "You think so?"

Harry shrugged. "Someone once taught me that if you think you're destined for failure, you'll absolutely fail," he paraphrased XoXaan's favourite lesson: _do, or do not; there is no try_. "Conversely, if you believe you'll succeed, you probably will."

Neville seemed a bit lost, but Hermione nodded along. She looked over at Neville and smiled kindly at the befuddled boy, prompting a blush. "That's right, Neville!" she agreed. "You just have to be a bit more confident in yourself!"

Well, there was a bit more to it than that, but it was fine if the boy took away even that much. If nothing else, it would make the boy think he owed him for believing in him, and Hermione would erase her past impression of him from Diagon Alley and replace it with Harry, the good friend.

Let them think what they will.

He was tempted to correct their line of thinking, of course, but XoXaan's warning held him back. If he tried to force them to think like Sith from their first meeting, he risked exposing himself unnecessarily. Harry was in no rush — he was still just 11 years old. He could afford waiting a few years, earning these people's trust, even as he plotted to bring down the world around them.

"So, how come you weren't with your guardians at Diagon Alley, Harry?" Hermione asked, clearly trying to make conversation. He might've felt like she was being a bit too forward, were it not for the genuineness in her eyes — for some reason, she thought this was how one was supposed to act with almost complete strangers. An explanation began to form in his mind that he made a mental note to share with XoXaan later.

Deciding to humor the girl, Harry shrugged. "My uncle and aunt had other things to do," he lied smoothly. As amusing as it would be to cast aspersions on his blood relatives — turnabout was fair play, he reasoned — he wasn't about to do away with the one sanctuary he had away from the prying eyes of the Light. If the Dursleys were gone, he would undoubtedly be placed with some magical family or institution, where he might end up under closer supervision than he'd been with the Dursleys, who preferred to ignore his existence.

He was glad to see that Hermione and Neville both bought the lie. "My parents couldn't come, either; they had medical appointments."

"Are they healers?" Neville asked their female acquaintance.

Hermione gave a small, uncertain shrug. "Sort of? I don't think the magical world has dentists, though. I don't remember reading about any."

"They have magic that can cleanse teeth decay," Harry informed her, remembering one of the many medical books he'd bought at the bookstore behind Sinistra's back. "It's in their Healer's Handguide."

"So...a dentist checks people's teeth?" Neville asked, putting two and two together. "That's pretty gross."

Harry didn't disagree, and he could see Hermione was of a similar mind, though her filial piety demanded she at least give a token defence. "It's not all that bad. It means more people get to have nicer smiles, even without magic."

A cute way to put it, if glossing over quite a bit. He remembered seeing older kids with braces back at St. Grogory's. It looked painful as hell.

He suddenly felt the train jerk forward a bit, and was about to comment about it when he felt another stab of the dark side — this one coming from _outside_ the train. Had it been the same one? Another?

Springing to his feet, Harry was at the window in a split second, looking outside for any sign of the source of the dark side. He could see parents and younger siblings waving goodbye to the children on the train — many of whom returned the gesture, but nothing overtly Dark. If nothing else, the most prominent sight he could see was a little, redheaded girl chasing after the train futilely, waving goodbye to someone further back in the train.

But no Dark Side presence. Nowhere in the crowd.

And yet, much like in this compartment — he'd felt it. He knew he had. The anguish, the envy, the resentment...the _hatred_.

But what could this mean? Were there other Dark Side users around? Were they merely coming into their own? Were they hiding their true nature? A sort of rival, proto-Sith?

"Harry?"

Harry immediately cursed in his head as he belatedly realised that his reaction to the dark side pulse must've been quite dramatic. Turning around slowly, he faced his two new acquaintances with a calm, confident smile.

"Sorry about that," he apologised smoothly. "I thought I'd forgotten something. My mistake."

The two children before him believed it easily enough, much to Harry's belief...and some scorn, if he was honest. He couldn't believe how gullible these two were, or that he had once been as weak as them.

Returning to his seat next to Neville, he remained quiet as he listened to Hermione's chatter about the way dentists worked, and how her parents were refusing to have her teeth magically fixed — probably as a point of professional pride.

Pointless suffering. Part of him admired their pettiness.

"So, these braces...does everyone have to use them?" Neville asked curiously. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to determine...something. Harry glanced over at Hermione, and almost laughed as he realised Neville was trying to determine whether or not their female companion had braces on herself. She didn't.

They were cute, in a way — the same way a defenseless animal was. XoXaan would've eaten them alive.

But such considerations had to be swept aside. He couldn't very well integrate with them if he continued to act like he was apart from them — superior to them. Even if he was, they couldn't be allowed to know that. They had to trust him. To invite him into their confidence. Betrayal hurt worst when it was done by your friends, after all.

And the Sith _revelled_ in pain.

"No, not everyone," Hermione conceded. "Just those with crooked teeth."

"Even then, not everyone does it," Harry interjected, remembering quite a few older kids in St. Grogory who _really_ should've had braces, but had foregone then.

"Still sounds nasty."

Harry gave a soft chuckle as Hermione helplessly shrugged. "Muggle society has had to do things differently to overcome their lack of magic," she explained. "What many wizards do with spells, Muggles do with technology. Some of it a bit more antiquated than we'd like."

The discussion whiled on, but as the train ride continued, Harry began to accrue enough information to start making basic assertions about his compartment companions. Hermione was a classic fish out of water — a smart girl who was unused to being around similarly smart peers. Her vocabulary was far beyond the median for their age, and her reasoning skills were also top notch. However, her occasional lack of understanding of basic social cues also told him that prolonged chit-chat was out of her comfort zone. Clearly, she would've rather spoken about more academic fields.

Neville, on the other hand, was the quintessential poster-boy for personal insecurities. Between his chubby physique and his self-admitted dubious magical ability, Harry could barely believe the boy could find the will to get out of bed, much less attend a magical school. Every time the subject of skills came up, he would immediately dismiss himself as having any. It didn't matter how much Hermione tried to be supportive, the boy simply wouldn't hear it.

XoXaan would've hated the boy.

On the other hand, he did find out that Neville was a member of a prominent wizard family — a potential useful boon for the future. While his parents were apparently injured beyond repair and currently interned at the sole magical hospital — one of Harry's many future targets — he personally remained under the care of his grandmother, whom he apparently feared.

Pitiful, but useful; it meant that if Harry could develop enough of an influence on the boy, he could make use of the Longbottoms' wealth and influence to the Sith's ends.

He hesitated to make decisive assertions, however. XoXaan had often warned him that he was too prone to flying by the seat of his pants. More than once, she had ordered him to pace himself, to think things through before reacting. The Sith could not afford mistakes at this juncture.

To his relief, however, he found that interacting with these children came easier than expected for him. He had dreaded every minute of the trip to King's Cross, but found that if he surrounded himself with children like Hermione and Neville, perhaps the experience wouldn't be all bad.

As he ostensibly sat there enjoying their company, he wondered how it would feel when he eventually killed them.

* * *

Beautiful.

That was the only way Harry could describe Hogwarts Castle as he watched the building come into view from aboard his small rowing boat, magically being impulsed forward along the dark waters of the Great Lake. Beautiful...and sickening.

Harry could feel the Light bursting from it even this far away. Hell, he'd felt it the moment the train had reached its station at a place called Hogsmeade — he idly wondered why wizards seemed to be such fans of hogs. The power it exuded was no joke, and he knew XoXaan would be worried once he communed with her in the safety of his dorm. If this was the _school_ , after all, what would their _government_ be like? And the books mentioned _other_ schools, too!

For the first time since meeting XoXaan and learning of her plan to bring the world under the control of the Sith, Harry began to feel doubt about the validity of their plan.

He glanced back at his wagon companions — now joined by two other children whose names he didn't really bother to remember — and saw their faces light up in similar wonder.

That was problematic.

It meant that this institution was already getting its grip on them — the wonder and majesty of the castle would undoubtedly become reinforced over the years thanks to the latent power of the Light, to the extent that Harry doubted the Sith would be able to find much in the way of willing followers from this place.

Which meant they had two choices: corrupt it, or burn it down.

The latter was not an immediate option, however — the Sith were supposed to stay hidden, until such a time as Harry was able to take on the mantle of Dark Lord. That meant that they only really had one choice left: corruption.

Harry glanced back at his boatmates, beginning to see where XoXaan had been coming from when she ordered him to mingle with his classmates — it would be quite the difficult task indeed to corrupt those around him if he constantly kept them at arm's length.

The boat's rocking soon came to a halt as they reached the docks, whereupon they were guided by their rather gigantic guide up several flights of winding stairs to the main entrance. Harry wondered about all this pomp and circumstance — surely, there had to be a better, more efficient way to go about bringing new First Years to the school? How did the other years do it?

Whatever the case, he watched as the gigantic man turned over control of the group to an older woman — her look of utmost seriousness reminded him of XoXaan a bit, save for the fact that her eyes were soft. He inclined his head in acknowledgement when he noticed the gigantic man waving him at him excitedly before leaving.

Curious. He wondered why the man had chosen to perform such an action. He recalled that the man had wanted to flag him down for a chat when they'd offloaded from the train, but by the time Harry had taken any notice of him, he'd already been in his boat.

The group followed the stern woman — he'd completely missed her name earlier — into the castle proper, dutifully trailing behind her as she led them past the main hall's door — he could hear hundreds of muffled voices from beyond the door; the rest of the school must've already arrived — and then stopped at another one, just off to the side.

There, she opened the door and shooed them in, leading to the crowd of First Years feeling a bit bunched up together, which Harry reflected must've been an attempt at getting them a bit anxious. If so, it was certainly working on the children around him.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said the stern woman. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

Harry nodded along with the rest of the children — so far, it was all matching well with what he'd read.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

Harry raised an eyebrow. The professor was certainly glossing over a lot in her quick intro to the children's present situation. From what he'd read, only two of the four Houses were in any way considered socially desirable — Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Slytherins had a nasty reputation as being full of ambitious and Dark students, while Hufflepuffs were considered jokes. It was obvious she was trying to be impartial, but even her body language had told a different tale — her muted glow of pride as she'd said Gryffindor; her grudging tightening of the hands when mentioning Ravenclaw — a sign of grudging respect; her absolutely neutral behaviour when mentioning Hufflepuff; and the mild tension in her shoulders as she'd named Slytherin.

Unbiased, this woman was not.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting," the woman added. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

With that, the woman turned and entered the hall beyond the small room's door. Harry eyed his companions, noticing Neville looking a bit abashed as he fixed his cloak, while Hermione seemed to be reciting about a chapter's worth of facts under her breath, as though she was revising for a test.

How amusingly childish.

"Relax," he whispered to both of them. "Do you really want the school's first impression of you to be that of a nervous wreck?"

His words had the exact opposite effect, however, as both children fretted even more. Sighing, Harry turned his attention back to the door the woman had disappeared through, considering the pros and cons of going into a meditative trance while he waited. Before he could make a decision, however, a gasp caught his attention to his left, and as he looked in the direction they'd pointed, Harry's only reaction was to raise an eyebrow.

Ghosts had appeared, coming right through the walls. Harry would've been just as amazed as any other of his classmates, but after having been instructed by what was essentially a millennia-old ghost for several years now, he was understandably somewhat jaded.

As such, he ignored the byplay, and was soon rewarded for his patience by the stern woman coming back.

"Move along now," said the woman. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

Heeding her command, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall one by one. Harry narrowed his eyes as he considered their presence — he hadn't really thought about it till now, but the presence of ghosts did mean he had an added risk to his operations here. If a ghost could casually pass through walls, one might accidentally happen upon one of his secret lessons with XoXaan.

He resolved to find a way to repel ghosts.

"Now, form a line," The stern woman told the group, "and follow me."

Obediently, the group followed the woman into the Great Hall, where, despite Harry's jadedness, he had to admit the sights were impressive. Floating candles adorned the hall, while long tables held hundreds of children, all of whom seemed to be gleefully enjoying what appeared to be quite the feast. At the very back was a single table where Harry presumed the staff was sitting.

That's when he felt it — a burst of Light that nearly made him puke.

His Force-attuned senses ringing, he quickly zeroed in on the source — the old man at the center place of the staff table. Despite his kindly disposition and rather ridiculous choice of clothing, Harry instinctively knew the power this man wielded...and for the first time in many years, knew _fear_.

Here was a man who would be able to crush Harry and XoXaan's plans in a second. One who could tear him down before Harry could even lift a hand to crush his windpipe, or blast him into a wall.

This man was _dangerous_ , and all Harry could do in his presence was force himself to stay upright.

"So much for looking composed," he heard Hermione mutter near him. Harry only belatedly understood what she meant — when the first drops of sweat ran down his temples, cheek, and finally chin.

He was... _sweating_. He, who had faced down bullies, who had faced down his childhood nightmare...he was _sweating_ again? Out of _fear_?

In all honesty, he supposed he'd had it easy thus far. Everyone around him back at Little Whinging was a "Muggle," as these wizards called them — powerless in the face of the Sith. The man before him, however, was in another class entirely — a class Harry would have to reach and overcome if he wanted to even have a chance to bring the Grand Plan to fruition.

By the time he was able to regain control of his panicked mind, Harry realised he'd missed the grand entrance and song of what appeared to be a rather worn out, pointed hat — not unlike those often seen in children's picture books.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

Harry was still lost regarding what was going on, right up until a girl from the group stepped forward and sat on the stool that had held the hat, which was promptly placed on her head by the stern woman. There was a brief pause before, to Harry's wonder, the brim of the hat opened up and, in a very human voice, called out,

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Realisation hit Harry as he finally understood what was going on. Rather than a personality test, this enchanted item would Sort them...ostensibly by "reading" them.

Which brought Harry to a screeching halt, mentally. If the hat was going to read him, then would it find out about the Sith? Would it figure out what their plans were? If so, did this mean that the hat would report him to the very powerful man at the head table?

Panic once again flooded him as he tried to think of a way out of this. With every passing name, his anxiety reached a new level. He watched as Hermione went first out of the three of their train group, and was mildly surprised to see that she had been sorted into Gryffindor — albeit after what seemed like an unending, fierce mental debate with the hat. After a bit came Neville, who also got sorted in Gryffindor — yet another surprise.

Surprises that did little to assuage his own fears, however. In the best case scenario, the hat wouldn't report him, but would instead likely Sort him into Slytherin — which would probably set off all sorts of alarms with the staff, considering Harry's fame. That was oversight he and XoXaan could not afford. In the worst case scenario, the hat would reveal him as one of the Sith, and the whole plan would be derailed for good.

If only he could change its mind…!

Harry paused, and the whole world seemed to fade away. What if he could? One of XoXaan's lessons — albeit purely theoretical at this point — had been about using the Force to exact change in people's minds. The first practical skill he'd learned from that field had been Force Fear. According to XoXaan, however, a more advanced use of the Force was to manipulate a being into performing certain actions — even mind-wiping them.

The theory, she explained, was similar to using Force Fear, except instead of flooding the target's mind with fear, the Force user had to tap into the target's thinking, carefully manoeuvring it towards the desired action. It was incredibly complex and took years of training to master.

But Harry didn't have years. He didn't even have hours. He had, at best, minutes.

M.

Harry ignored the proceedings from then on, instead summoning as much of the Dark Side as he could muster. Careful to keep his expression from showing the growing fury inside him, he drew on every hateful memory he had to further fuel his hatred. It wasn't a difficult task by any means — he had those aplenty, and his current situation only helped to aggravate those feelings.

N.

Harry knew he needed a test run before he tried something so complex on the hat — an actually enchanted object. Glancing to his side, he picked one of the few remaining students in their group and, as XoXaan had once demonstrated, gave a small, subtle gesture in the boy's direction.

Nothing.

The N's were still going, but Harry could only focus on his frustration. According to XoXaan, the victim tended to enter a fugue state when affected by this skill, but the boy seemed normal to Harry. Once more summoning the full might of the Dark Side, Harry again motioned towards the boy, careful to keep his hand behind his back and out of sight, and this time willed the Force to enter the boy's mind.

"Nott, Theodore!"

It all happened almost precisely on cue. The moment the name was shouted, the boy started to move before he suddenly stopped, much to the confusion of everyone around him — saved Harry, who almost flinched in surprise. The boy's expression turned vacant for a moment, and while the stern woman seemed to be getting impatient, Harry felt a burst of elation as he realised what had happened.

He had succeeded!

However, if the boy didn't move soon, he knew he would be inviting scrutiny he did not need. Moving over to the boy, he nudged him with his elbow — knowing it would not break the fugue state — and made a show of telling him, "Oi. You want to move, yeah? She looks pretty impatient."

When the boy nodded and said, "I want to move. She looks pretty impatient," Harry had to do everything to stop himself from dancing on the spot. He watched, pleased, as the boy marched almost robotically to the stern woman and stood there. It wasn't until she shook his shoulder that he snapped out of his fugue state and reddened in embarrassment before mumbling what Harry presumed was an apology and sat down.

With any luck, everyone would assume this had simply been a case of the jitters.

In any case, Harry was much more confident in his prospects now, and watched as the proceedings continue.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry strode forward confidently, his faith in his own abilities now reinforced. Even so, his final approach to the stool was more wary, his Sith training kicking in on instinct. This was another major hurdle to overcome, and he wasn't about to blow a glorious destiny on a last-second falter in focus.

Ignoring all the whispers, he slowly sat down on the stool and, closing his eyes, felt the hat slowly come down onto his head. The moment he felt the first invasion into his head, he unleashed the power of the Dark Side upon the hat, hoping to immediately subvert it.

To his horror, nothing happened.

 _My, my, but you_ _ **are**_ _a complex one._

Panic settled in, overriding all of Harry's reason at this stage. The attempt to subvert the hat had failed, and it was now going to rat him out, forever ending the Sith's plans before they even got started!

 _What's this? Are you frightened, young man?_

The question froze Harry's thoughts in their tracks. Why was it asking that? Couldn't it tell?

 _There we go,_ the hat whispered into his "ear." _Much better. Now then, let's have a look at you, hmm?_

Realisation struck Harry then — the hat _couldn't_ easily tell _anything_ , not without Harry giving it access. Whether by accident or design, the hat appeared to be touching only the surface of his thoughts, which meant…

Immediately, Harry recalled his Sith meditation techniques, but almost belatedly realised they wouldn't work — if the hat could sense his anger, his fury, then the gig would be up. Instead, thinking quickly, he did the _opposite_ — he thought of literally nothing...or as close as he could come to that.

 _Oh? It's suddenly much quieter in here._

Harry almost smiled as he realised the hat was no longer capable of its previous, unfettered access to even his surface thoughts.

' _I apologise; this world is very confusing to me_ ,' Harry lied smoothly. ' _I was not prepared for you._ '

Reaching out with the Force, he could feel every eye in the Great Hall on him, but he focused his attention on two specific persons — the old man at the head table, and the hat. One felt anxious, while the other felt amused. To reinforce his point, Harry dredged up a memory of the Dursleys, letting it "accidentally" slip through.

 _I see. Yes. Such circumstances_ _ **would**_ _make your magical education problematic. My sympathies, my boy. But you survived! You thrived in adversity! Perhaps Gryffindor would be best? I see a lot of courage in standing up for yourself…_

Harry kept his cool, but let his disapproval filter through. He let through some memories of him subverting the teachers, bullies, and the Dursleys.

 _Not Gryffindor? I never thought I'd see the day when a Potter rejected the House of Red and Gold. Then again, perhaps Slytherin? I see a lot of cunning in you, in the way you stayed a step ahead of your guardians._

Again, that met with Harry's disapproval.

 _My, but you're picky. Not Slytherin, not Gryffindor. Where, then, do you feel most comfortable?_

Harry showed the hat his memories of studying the Hogwarts books, carefully leaving out any memories that might've led to the discovery of XoXaan's holocron.

 _Ravenclaw? An odd choice. Though I do feel your inquisitiveness, a Raven's desire for knowledge is unparalleled. I see no such desire in you, merely curiosity._

Harry couldn't disagree, but upon reflection, Ravenclaw was where he needed to be. Neither Dark nor Light, it provided the prefect neutral ground for him to thrive without either proto-Jedi or proto-Sith overseeing him. He kept up his memories of devoted studying.

' _It is also said that a wise man recognises when he is lacking,_ ' Harry thought at the hat, recalling his St. Grogory's studies. ' _I merely try to do the same. Gryffindors value bravery, but I value caution. Slytherin value naked ambition and ruthlessness, but I value goal-oriented ambitions and moderation. Neither would fit me. Ravenclaw would._ '

Harry didn't need the force to know the hat wasn't sure, but he also knew he made a compelling argument. At least, he thought so.

 _Hmm, yes...but is this wisdom, or deceit? Is this wisdom, or pettiness?_

Harry froze in his seat.

 _You claim to have no bravery, but you dare stand up to me when most your age would quietly go along. You claim no cunning, but you try to convince me by undermining two houses. You claim wisdom, yet fail to see this problem._

The hat squirmed on his head. Harry had a bad feeling about what the end result would be, and wondered if he could gather the Force to him quickly enough to stop it. He opted to give it one last chance before possibly blowing his cover, flooding it with memories of studying and his raging desire to know more.

 _Sith?_

Harry's became even more perfectly still. Had he been so desperate to manipulate the hat that he had accidentally let out his affiliation.

 _What is this Sith whose knowledge you seek?_

Harry thought quickly. ' _Something I came across a long time ago,_ ' Harry half-lied, believing he could not feasibly get away with lying outright at this stage. ' _It...helped me with the Dursleys. I want to know more about it. Everything, in fact._ '

The hat hummed as it processed Harry's words. For a moment, Harry thought the hat would just dismiss this.

 _Fascinating. Such drive to learn...I see your words were not entirely empty. Perhaps there is merit in your argument._

Harry felt his heart begin to soar ever so slightly. Was his luck beginning to turn?

 _Very well, then...let it be…_ " **RAVENCLAW!** "

Harry opened his eyes as he felt the hat leave his head, dark triumph flooding through his system as he stood up amidst the cheers and applause and shocked shouting. His first test as part of the Sith — his first, true test, where everything lay in the balance...and he had **succeeded**.

He watched as the teachers reacted to his Sorting as he walked over to the blue-and-bronze clad students who were motioning at him, not once missing the look of crushing disappointment in the stern woman who'd led them into the hall, or the shock in both the old man at the staff table, and on the face of a sallow-faced man with a hooked nose and greasy hair.

Good. His first day in Hogwarts, and the most powerful man in the school — his natural enemy — was already caught off-guard. Yet, for all his shock, Harry could not feel wariness from the man — merely curiosity, a bit of disappointment, and optimism. He could tell that his Sorting had made some sort of unexpected impact on the man, but one he had not considered a negative.

Good.

With this, the Sith had obtained their first true victory in their Grand Plan to subjugate this world. With this, they had infiltrated the most prominent school in Wizarding England, allowing their Order access to the secrets of the Wizarding World, to be perfected with the secrets of the Force. In time, Harry would grow powerful enough under the stewardship of this pathetic school, and he would corrupt its very soul for the glory of his Order.

The Sith, at last, would return.

* * *

 ** _Post-AN_** _: Before someone asks why Harry failed to manipulate the hat via the Force: I'm arguing that this would require the presence of a "mind," so to speak, whereas the hat is not so much sentient as enchanted to conduct a certain role. It may seem sentient, without actually qualifying as such. Moreover, even if we presume sentience, there are many species in the SW-verse which have proven to be impossible to manipulate via the Force._


	5. The Blinding Light

_**AN:** In memoriam: Carrie Fisher (1956-2016)._

* * *

Harry was at a loss, and he didn't much care for the feeling.

It was now a week after the Sorting Ceremony, and for the most part, Harry had found Hogwarts life remarkably routine. If you could get past all the magical sights and tricks, then it was easy to realise that for all its pageantry, Hogwarts was still a school, with classes, social pressures, social hierarchies, and so forth.

Sure, he wasn't learning math or basic writing skills anymore, but that just meant the class contents themselves changed — but as far as he could tell from the syllabi he'd accumulated from every class thus far, there would still be homework, tests, projects, and so forth. The teachers would still grade him on participation in class, tardiness, and other basic disciplinary categories.

In short, it was a school like any other.

Well, except for this class. Potions class.

Harry hadn't been quite sure what to make of the teacher yet. The man — identified as Severus Snape at the beginning of class — was tall and sallow looking, with a large, hooked nose and yellowing teeth. His personal grooming habits also appeared to be waging a constant war with personal hygiene, given his oily, long hair. In any other environment, Harry was sure he would've been fired for being a walking source of disease.

Except Harry had long ago learned that appearances could be deceiving, and Snape _had_ achieved the rank of Potions Master fair and square. That meant considerable intelligence lay behind those dark, malicious eyes that seemed fixated on him.

And yet, the teacher was puzzling to him. Upon arrival, Snape had zeroed in on him — visually, if not vocally — and Harry could practically _feel_ the man's anger and resentment. It was practically intoxicating in itself, and Harry gleefully drew on it, even if he was uncertain what had caused it.

What he found strange, however, was the confusion that lay mixed in with the dark feelings. Recalling the Sorting Ceremony, Harry remembered that Snape had looked shocked by the result — perhaps just as much or even more so than the headmaster. That spoke volumes to Harry. It meant the man had already forged a preconceived notion about him, but Harry was clueless as to why or how.

Harry wondered if he had met Snape in the past, and just forgot. It seemed unlikely, considering that XoXaan's teachings had gifted him with near immaculate eidetic memory. Perhaps it was rumour? He'd heard enough tales about him from his new roommates to fill a book...and all of them patently false. Still, those tales painted him as a tragic hero, and he couldn't see how that would put him on Snape's shit list.

Regardless, Harry had stayed as inconspicuous as possible during the lesson, which was shared with students from Hufflepuff. Snape occasionally made a sharp-tongued, biting remark to him and his classmates — usually questioning the Ravenclaw students' intelligence, and insinuating that Hufflepuffs were mediocre or poor students as a rule — but other than that, the lesson passed productively enough.

"Can you believe the nerve of that man?" fumed his roommate, Terry Boot, as they left their most recent lesson. Boot had been singled out shortly before the class was let out by Snape on account of the fact that Boot had asked him about a bezoar's secondary properties.

"Considering his constant foul mood, are you really surprised?" Harry asked calmly as they walked towards the Great Hall together. XoXaan had impressed upon him the need to associate with his year-mates, at the very least, lest his isolation draw suspicion. Out of the two other roommates he had, Harry found Boot to be the most tolerable one.

"Well, no," Boot conceded. "Still, he's a teacher, isn't he? He should be _glad_ to teach his subject!"

Harry recalled his old teachers at St. Grogory and snorted. "You'd be surprised, Boot," he answered with a small, knowing smile. "I've known loads of teachers who could barely be bothered to teach."

The way Terry shivered at the thought was quite amusing to Harry. He'd found that students who came from older families and stuck to marriage with other wizards and witches tended to be devoid of a lot of common sense and real world wisdom. He'd already scandalised a number of Ravenclaw purebloods by informing them that the books that had been published about him were 100% false, considering that he'd been raised by Muggles who wanted nothing to do with magic.

It seemed odd to him that they hadn't been able to realise that these books couldn't possibly be truthful, considering that he was supposed to be _in hiding_. If he was hid from the world, then how on earth could so many authors and journalists have possibly interviewed him? His location would've leaked in less than a minute!

But such things seemed to go over their heads, much to his disappointment. When he'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw, he'd expected a lot from his House-mates, especially considering that their House was renowned for the brilliance of its members.

"It's scandalous, is what it is," Boot insisted in a huff as they rounded into the next hallway on their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts. "What was the headmaster thinking, hiring that man?"

"A certified Potions Master is probably qualified enough to teach a Potions class?" Harry ventured sarcastically.

Boot flushed a bit — he wasn't quite used to Harry's biting remarks yet, but Harry would train him in time. Oh, yes, he would. "True…" he conceded.

"Don't pay it any mind, Boot," Harry told him as they reached the classroom and sat down near the middle — perfectly situated to provide maximum view of the front of the class, without being voluntold at every other occasion. All around him, his fellow Ravenclaws were dutifully getting their supplies ready for class. Harry imitated them by getting out his notebook and mechanical pencil — no longer drawing the curious looks he'd earned during Charms; the teachers, at least, seemed willing to overlook his habits. "From what I've heard, Snape is more bark than bite when it comes to his insults."

That was a bold faced lie, considering he hadn't held a decent conversation with anyone outside his year level yet. Still, it served to buoy the boy's spirits, which had been Harry's goal. "Besides," he added as he wrote the header for this class' notes, "it's not like he's known you for that long. If he thinks you're stupid, you'll just have to prove him wrong by doing the reading next time, no?"

Terry nodded slowly, Harry's logic fulfilling its work. Manipulating someone with backhanded compliments and insults was something he'd been wanting to try out ever since XoXaan had taught him how to play people. The problem had been that he hadn't particularly had intriguing targets of opportunity back at Privet Drive. Here, however, he could use a loyal, if browbeaten minion.

"Terry! Harry!"

As Terry turned to welcome their roommates with a smile, Harry responded with a polite nod. "Goldstein, Corner," he greeted as the duo sat down in nearby seats. "I assume your talk with Professor Snape went well?"

The grimaces on both boys' faces told him everything.

"That man is entirely too stiff," Corner grumbled as he roughly drew out his writing materials. "So we made a tiny mistake. It's not like we didn't quickly correct it."

"Right lout, he is," Goldstein agreed.

Harry nodded sympathetically while rolling his eyes mentally. It was hard to restrain himself from chiding his year-mates the way XoXaan would've, yet he knew doing so would come across as arrogant and off-putting, which he could not afford at this juncture. Still, fortunately for him, the Ravenclaws had pretty predictable conversation topics. They either complained about teachers, their workload, or discussed their upcoming classes, which made it very easy for Harry to avoid having his personal life in the spotlight.

"Well, chin up, lads," Harry told them with a sympathetic grin. "We only have to deal with him for another six more years."

Groans answered his comment. Harry felt no pity.

"Well, at least the classes are interesting," opined Corner. "Charms was pretty cool."

"Well, they say Professor Flitwick was a pretty amazing duelist in his youth," Goldstein pointed out.

"What do they say about the teacher for this class?" Harry asked, filing away that information on their House Head for future use.

"Professor Quirrell?" answered Boot before he pushed up his lower lip in a pensive frown. "Not much. I hear he used to be a Ravenclaw."

"Da says he was a frail thing back when he was a student," Goldstein added in a conspiratorial whisper. "But that he's sharp as a tack when it came to Muggle Studies."

Harry grimaced. That didn't bode well — a frail, Muggle Studies academic in charge of a Defence Against the Dark Arts class? What could he possibly learn from such a man?

Unfortunately, his fears were compounded when he actually got a look at Quirinus Quirrell in the flesh. There wasn't much there to impress, regrettably. Thin and frail looking, just as Goldstein had said, Quirrell also apparently spoke with a distracting stutter and appeared to have a fear of literally anything that wasn't himself — and Harry wasn't so sure about that last one.

Honestly — what was he supposed to learn from this ma—

Suddenly, Harry felt his scar explode with pain and only years of tutelage under XoXaan prevented him from crying out in pain or reaching up to cradle his scar. Instead, he channeled the pain into his anger, strengthening his connection to the Dark Side. But just as he was ready to lash out with his power against the source of his pain, it disappeared. Blinking away unformed tears, Harry looked up and saw Quirrell had turned to continue his lecture. It only belatedly struck him that he was the only one of his classmates not taking notes, and so he quickly resumed his writing, wondering all the while what had caused such pain in his scar.

The question plagued him all through the class, for it did not happen again. What could it have been? What could cause such pain in his head without actually harming him? For a moment, he wondered if perhaps he had become sick — but what sickness could do this?

In the end, he was left frustrated, as his only solution was to ask his Master for advice. Perhaps she would know — perhaps the pain was a natural side-effect of prolonged exposure to the Dark Side.

"You alright, Harry?" asked Boot as they left the classroom, heading back to their Common Room at long last to drop off their stuff and relax for a bit before dinner time. "You look a bit pale."

Harry nodded steadily. Fortunately, none of his yearmates had any idea of what he'd gone through, or else he imagined he would've been facing much more direct questions. "Yeah, just a little headache. Nothing too bad," he said smoothly.

To his other side, Corner nodded. "I can sympathise, mate. I had a bit of a headache myself just listening to Professor Quirrell stutter every word."

Goldstein shrugged ahead of them. "At least he knows his stuff," he pointed out. "Guess he wasn't as bad as da made him out to be."

Did he? Harry hadn't been able to really tell, what with the blinding pain and follow-up questions he'd been distracted by. He'd have to find a way to ask Boot to lend him his notes on the class later on without arising suspicion. A headache wouldn't be enough.

As they rounded the corner, their group of Ravenclaws stopped as they came across a scene that, according to their upperclassmen, would become routine for them in years to come. Ahead, basically forming a human barricade across the hall, were two groups of students, facing off — one Slytherin, one Gryffindor, by their House colours.

"Oh, look, it's the cannon fodder and the snakes," Goldstein muttered. Harry couldn't help but snort at the descriptions. "How utterly stereotypical."

"Can't they take this somewhere else?" complained Corner as he shifted his bag's strap on his shoulder. "These books are heavy!"

"Pity we're not yet at featherweight charms, then," Harry remarked as he kept his eyes on the confrontation. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry was the thing of legends, apparently dating all the way back to the original Founders of Hogwarts — which brought up all sorts of questions in Harry's mind. It was made worse by the fact that Slytherin had apparently been winning the House Cup consistently for the last seven years, stinging the Gryffindors' pride.

Well, not that it mattered to him. Other than providing some amusement, Harry saw nothing worthwhile in getting involved in this tiff of theirs.

He was just about to say as much to his yearmates, however, when he caught sight of a Slytherin girl standing off to one side, looking distinctly unhappy with where she was. Subtly at first, but with increasing vigour, Harry could _feel_ the Dark Side rolling off of her — mostly fueled by feelings of sadness, hatred, and self-loathing.

Eyeing her, then the group of Slytherins boisterously confronting the Gryffindors in a juvenile name-calling match, Harry wondered what could've triggered such an outburst in the Force. Certainly nothing in the image before him suggested that she was a victim. If anything, standing with the Slytherins basically put her on the winning side.

So why was he picking up on feelings of victimisation? The likes of which were _very_ familiar to him.

He was about to delve deeper into the mystery when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and snapped out of his train of thought. Fortunately, he had enough self-control not to blast away Corner, who'd been the one to lay a hand on him.

"Come on, Harry," his yearmate insisted, motioning down an adjacent hall. "The others say there's a way around these idiots."

Harry nodded stiffly before shooting the Slytherin girl another brief glance. Committing her face to memory, Harry turned and accompanied Corner and his dorm mates away from the confrontation.

He had much to think about.

* * *

Tracey Davis.

That was her name.

"She got sorted right after Michael," Goldstein reminded him between mouthfuls of food. "Can't say I envy her, being Sorted into Slytherin in her condition."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but it was Boot that beat him to the punch. "Condition?"

"She's a half-blood," Corner explained simply, as though that would answer everything.

It sort of did. Harry's pre-Hogwarts research had taught him that Slytherins in the past seventy or so years had become a hotbed for pureblood extremism. While the House Founder's penchant for the bigoted ideology was well known, it hadn't been until just after World War II that the House had apparently truly embraced a more radical stance on the issue.

Granted, Harry had been dealing with some pretty biased sources, but the information, coupled with what he now knew of the Davis girl, allowed him to put all the pieces into their rightful place.

And without his Master's aid, for once.

"Yikes," Boot said, drawing Harry's attention. "No wonder she looks miserable."

Indeed. From where he sat, Harry occasionally glanced over to the Slytherin table and saw the girl sitting practically by herself — always at least two seats between her and any of the other, more "noble" students. It took nothing for Harry to realise what he was seeing, having once been a victim of the practice himself.

She was being bullied.

But not the sort of temporary bullying, where you basically forced your victim to drop out or stop coming to school altogether — no, the type to break down your spirit and turn you into a follower. He'd seen it happen enough times to recognise it on the spot. First came the social isolation, to break down one's feeling of self-worth. This would be followed by a sustained campaign of slurs and verbal bullying — physical, too, depending on the bully. Following that, the leader of the bullying group would "reach out" to the victim and offer protection in exchange for loyalty. By that point, the victim's self-esteem would be so shattered that they would gratefully take their bully's hand in the hopes of a reprieve, not realising — or not caring — that they were now shackled to a master.

Truly, the weak were pitiful creatures.

Still, Harry saw potential in the girl. While the Dark Side was rife in Slytherin, none of the other kids he'd seen _radiated_ it the way the girl did.

And, if he was entirely honest with himself, she reminded him of himself a bit.

"Oi, Potter!"

Harry blinked and returned his attention to Goldstein, who'd called out to him. The boy seemed amused.

"You've been spacing out a lot today," his yearmate noted before shooting him a wide, mischievous grin. "Don't tell me you fancy the girl?"

"Ew," Corner grimaced. "Who's got time for girls?"

"Do you, Harry?" Boot asked, wide-eyed.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, I don't," he said truthfully. He had zero romantic interest in anyone at this point, and part of him doubted he would ever develop these feelings. XoXaan had been very clear about the effects the Dark Side would have on his psyche, particularly considering he'd started so young. "She's merely interesting. After all, a half blood in a pureblood house? Tell me that doesn't interest you," he challenged Goldstein.

The boy shrugged before scratching his cheek. "Eh, I guess," he conceded. "But it's happened before. Da says if they've got guts, they usually turn out alright. No chance of them turning out pureblood fanatics, that's for sure."

Harry shrugged, turning his attention to his meal. Carefully picking out his food, Harry made sure to follow XoXaan's strict dietary orders — as the Sith Lady explained, a healthy body meant a healthy mind, and Sith were meant to be at the peak of their physical prowess. Those who weren't inevitably succumbed to their baser, more savage instincts.

"Speaking of classes," Boot broke into the conversation then, "have any of you started on the homework for Potions, yet?"

Corner nodded. "I'm done with mine."

"You got a copy of the book from the library, then?" Boot followed up. Another nod from Corner. "Can I borrow it?"

"Sure."

"Can I have a go after Terry?" Harry asked. "I meant to swing by the library, but got caught up doing the Charms reading."

"Bleh, still have to do that," Goldstein grimaced. "Is it long?"

Harry shrugged. "I've had to read longer."

"Not very comforting, but I'll take it," Golstein remarked wryly. "Tell me it's interesting, at least."

"From a certain point of view, I suppose," Harry said with an equally wry grin. How he enjoyed teasing his house mates!

Goldstein made a face at him. "You're no help."

"I try," Harry said glibly, before nodding to the Ravenclaw girls from their year who'd passed by them. They tended to gravitate towards their upperclassmen, usually asking questions about the curriculum.

"Looks like Su isn't over Professor Snape's insults," Corner observed, prompting Harry to look over at the Asian girl. Indeed, there were still a few streak marks down her cheeks from when she'd cried. He supposed she'd have to develop thicker skin if she wanted to survive seven years of Snape.

"Telling her to drop right out of school for messing up once?" Goldstein reminded them. "Harsh."

"The upperclassmen say he's always like that, though," Boot said.

"Don't let him get to you," Harry advised. "He's the kind that'll smack you down harder if you try to resist him." Harry would know — he'd done it enough times to Dudley and Piers, after all.

Goldstein frowned. "That's not very brave."

"No, it isn't," Harry agreed. "But it's _smart_. Let the...what did you call them, Michael? Cannon fodder? Let them be the brave ones."

He could see that Goldstein wasn't too happy with that, but conceded the point, as did Boot and Corner. In the end, they weren't meant to be the House of the Brave, but rather the House of the Wise. Getting involved in a lost struggle against Professor Snape would do nobody any good, and they knew it. Better to keep their heads down and let some nobler minded fool deal with it.

"Harry!"

Harry blinked at the familiar voice and turned to see the Granger girl and Longbottom coming up to him, much to his surprise. It had been his understanding that the Houses tended to be pretty insular, so to see Granger and Longbottom outside of a class environment was something of a surprise.

He quickly dug through his memories to remember their first names, having filed them away entirely after the Sorting had been completed. He'd never expected to need to remember them once he'd realised they'd be in separate Houses. "Hermione. Neville," he greeted them with a nod, paying attention at the slightly surprised looks on his yearmates' faces. "How are you?" he asked politely.

Both children beamed at him — Granger more so than Longbottom, truth be told. "Good!" Granger answered with a bright smile that immediately set Harry on edge. There was something wrong with it, and he couldn't yet put his finger on what. "Isn't magic wonderful? I've learned so much already, and it's just my first day!"

"Yes," Harry agreed congenially before motioning to his dorm mates. "Hermione, these are Anthony, Michael, and Terry. My dorm mates," he introduced, before motioning to Granger and Longbottom. "Guys, these are Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. They're in —"

"Gryffindor, yeah," Corner finished for him, much to his irritation. "We know. Watched the Sorting, unlike _someone_ I could mention..."

"No offense," Boot spoke up, looking at the Gryffindor duo, "but why are you guys here?" he asked.

Granger looked taken aback. "C-Can't we?" she asked, suddenly losing a lot of her self-assuredness.

Boot seemed to have understood the effect his tone had had on the girl, because he quickly flushed and gesticulated wildly. "No! I mean, yes! I mean!"

"He means," Corner cut in, "it's not usual for Houses to visit each other outside of class," he supplied. "At least, not in the first few years."

"Oh," Granger said softly, while Longbottom suddenly looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

In that moment, looking all around him and remembering the small burst of Dark Side he'd felt aboard the train, Harry made a decision. A decision that he knew would mark his stay in Hogwarts for good.

He gestured to the empty seats next to him. "Please, join us," he offered.

"But, the rules —"

"Not a rule, a tradition," Harry interrupted Granger. "You are, of course, free to decline and return to Gryffindor's table, but if I may hazard a guess, I believe you'll find better company here," he noted smoothly. He didn't really need much decisive proof for that assertion — Granger had already come across as a bookworm, while Longbottom obviously suffered from crippling self-doubt. Neither were a good personality fit with their fellow Gryffindors.

"I...thank you," Granger said finally, taking a seat next to him. Following her cue, Longbottom mumbled his thanks and took the seat next to hers. Both were _very_ aware of the stares they'd incurred. "Sorry for the commotion."

"It's quite alright," Harry assured her. "I'm fairly certain the novelty will wear off in time, and then they'll move onto the next juicy bit of gossip."

Boot cracked a smile at that. "True enough," he agreed, directing his words towards their Gryffindor companions. "As the lummox here mentioned, I'm Terry. Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he introduced himself with a nod. Harry shot him a mock glare.

"Lummox, am I?" he asked as Goldstein and Corner introduced themselves again.

Boot shrugged. "Have to get my kicks in _somehow_ , right?"

Harry chuckled before resuming his meal. Fair enough, he concluded. After all, he took any advantage he could to subtly put down his yearmates in an effort to make them dependent on him. Unfortunately, that would take time to really take effect — more so once one took into account the fact that his House was renowned for intelligence and wisdom, meaning they'd be harder to undermine through conventional means.

But Ravenclaw was a target he had six more years to try and corrupt. Glancing over to the Slytherin table, he focused his gaze upon the one target that was near and vulnerable. Should he approach her? Should he not? The question tormented him as he ate, nodding at intervals to keep up the illusion that he was engaging his year mates and his Gryffindor guests.

There were certainly benefits to take a direct approach as soon as possible. If Davies was vulnerable enough already, she could make a useful spy for him in Slytherin. Not that it wasn't in the cards already — he actually planned to have spies in all three Houses, and Hermione and Neville were prime candidates for that position. Hufflepuff was still a bit of a dilemma, especially considering it was known as a nurturing and inclusive House — meaning troubled candidates were less likely to arise there.

Turning the issue over in his mind did not really help him come to a conclusion, he found. The problem was that no matter how he tried to justify the decision, he always came back to the same conclusion: he had to ask XoXaan first. She was, after all, his Master, and without her approval and cooperation, he had no idea what he could offer Davies that would make her agree to work with him.

To his surprise, the thought of going to his Master irked him. Upon reflection, he realised that he'd wanted to be able to take the lead on his own on this matter, as a way to prove that he was worthy of the Sith title. If he could achieve this conversion, then perhaps XoXaan would treat him as more than just some apprentice. Perhaps she'd come to see that he _was_ ready to move to the next stage.

Unfortunately, his Ravenclaw-ish side also understood how wrong he was. Thinking things through, he realised that he had been toying dangerously close with the sin of hubris, which XoXaan had warned him constantly to avoid. While Sith were _right_ to be proud of their power and status, they could not afford to be blinded by it...and Harry realised he had been edging ever nearer to that line with this train of thought.

So in the end, Harry decided to let his wisdom overrule his pride. He would speak to XoXaan, and let his Master determine how best to proceed. After all, she had made him powerful already — though he had still much to learn to even consider being at her level. Surely, she would see the wisdom in gaining an ally.

Yes, he thought with satisfaction as he finished his meal. XoXaan would see the benefits of his plan, and soon, he would have his own spy in Slytherin.

* * *

 _I forbid it_.

Whatever answer Harry had been expecting, this had not been it.

Glowering at the floor, Harry didn't dare raise his head to face his Master. Not when her tone was as icy and firm as this. It would bode ill for him. Still, he couldn't deny that his pride was stung by the refusal, especially as he'd had the sense to wait a few days before making his query — long enough for him to get the basics of an Imperturbable Charm down so he could have his audience with his Master behind the safety of his bed curtains.

"May I ask _why_ , Master?" he asked through gritted teeth.

 _I should think it obvious, apprentice. You are not ready_.

Harry felt anger bubbling inside him at the hologram's criticism. Not ready? _Not_ _ready_?! He had already terrorised his blood family! He had already ruled his class at St. Grogory! He could manipulate teachers left and right, and he was hard at work repeating his achievements here, in Hogwarts! How was he _not_ ready for _this_?!

 _You disagree_.

That wasn't a question. But he answered it as such anyway. "Yes, my Master."

 _You believe you could turn this girl to the Dark Side._

"Yes, my Master."

 _And then?_

Harry blinked at the question, his head still bowed. What did she mean, and then? What else was there?

"I don't understand, Master."

 _Once this girl is turned, what will you do? Will you become her Master? Teach her in the ways of the Sith?_

For a few seconds, Harry actually toyed with that idea before returning to reality — which was that he was woefully under-equipped for such a task. Hell, he wasn't even a Sith Lord yet, much less a Sith Master.

"I believed you would honour her with training, Master."

 _Lift your head, apprentice._

Harry did as he was ordered, and saw a rather irritated look on his master's face that bode ill for him.

 _How would I accomplish such a thing, with your bedrooms being so far apart?_

Harry swallowed. He hadn't considered that.

She continued without pausing for his answer, clearly knowing that he had no good answer for her. _And what would you say to entice her? Would you show off your powers? Your experience? Your accomplishments? Perhaps you would feed her some sob story about your own traumas and seek to establish a bond of mutual suffering?_

"I…"

 _You have_ _ **nothing**_ _at this juncture, apprentice, save for your_ _ **pride**_ _,_ she reminded him harshly. _You have nothing to control her with, and precious little to gain from such an association. Consider this:_ _ **if**_ _I chose to train her and she overtook you, what reason would I have to continue training_ _ **you**_ _?_

The question hit Harry like a sledgehammer, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. The realisation that XoXaan would replace him in a heartbeat if he failed to live up to any other apprentice filled him with cold dread that he hadn't felt since his life with the Dursleys pre-XoXaan.

"Master, you wouldn't…!"

 _Silence, child!_

Harry flinched. She hadn't called him that since the moment he'd accepted her offer to become her apprentice. The admonishment did its work, however, as his words died in his throat.

There was a cold fury in the hologram's eyes that made Harry sweat, and he instinctively lowered his head in submission.

 _I am not your parent,_ _ **boy**_ _. I am not your friend. I am your_ _ **master**_ _. But before I am even_ _ **that**_ _, I am_ _ **Sith**_ _. I will not tolerate such childish displays of naivety in any apprentice of mine!_

Harry swallowed, knowing he'd well and truly put his foot in it. "I understand, Master," he said quickly, trying to feed his tone of voice with all the regret he actually felt. "It will not happen again."

The hologram fixed him with a frigid stare. _That had best be true_ , XoXaan warned him, _For my patience is not without end, nor is it ample._

Harry kept his head bowed, but gave a slight nod in acquiescence of her words. A moment of silence passed between Master and Apprentice before the hologram nodded, apparently satisfied with his act of contrition.

 _Lift your head, apprentice, and tell me what you have learned_.

Slowly complying with the order, Harry still made sure to avoid eye contact, lest XoXaan interpret it as lingering defiance. "Master, I believe we may have erred on the side of arrogance when it comes to magic," he informed her after a moment of hesitation. He'd wondered how she would react to his information, especially after having spent the past few months deriding magical society as a whole.

She motioned for him to continue. _Explain_.

He took a deep breath before proceeding to recite everything he had learned in the past few days. As he did so, he kept a careful eye on XoXaan's hologram, noting a mild stiffness in her body language, but otherwise no other tells. He had to hand it to his teacher — he knew she was shocked, as he'd predicted, but could determine nothing else.

 _I see._ XoXaan's image became pensive as she stroked her chin with her elongated fingers. _You may be correct, apprentice. Perhaps I have given this backwater too little credit_.

Harry had to contain a sigh of relief. Such a display would not go over well at the moment.

 _Have you attempted to use any of these spells without your foci?_

Harry shook his head. "Not yet, Master. I believed it best to inform you of my findings before experimenting."

She nodded in response. _A wise choice._ His master's image turned to look at its surroundings. _Heed my instructions, apprentice._

Immediately, he bowed his head in acquiescence. He didn't need to look up to know she was pointing at him with one of her long, bony fingers.

 _You may not practice any of these so-called magicks without your foci until you have discovered an appropriately secluded training area. We cannot afford your abilities to filter out._

"Understood, Master," he agreed without question. "And my grades, Master? Given my station and current House, I believe it is expected of me to exceed my academic results from St. Grogory."

 _Then exceed, you shall, apprentice_. XoXaan raised a bony finger at him. _However, do not forget that your mission is to not to stand out. If academic achievement is necessary to keeping your cover, then by all means, do so. However, do not attract attention. We cannot give our enemies any hints of the extent of what you can do._

"Yes, Master."

XoXaan's image nodded before her long, bony fingers once again found her chin. _Has there been any attempts by the headmaster to contact you, apprentice?_

Harry shook his head. "Not yet, Master," he replied dutifully. "But I expect it will happen soon."

Her piercing gaze turned to him. _Has the Force revealed this to you?_

He shook his head. "No, Master. If anything, it is the way he observes me during meal times. I dare not reach out to him with the Force, for fear he might discover what I can do, but I can feel his gaze linger on me at shortening interludes. It will not be long now."

XoXaan remained impassive. _And have you sussed out what you will do when he finally does reach out, apprentice?_

Harry was brought up short by the question. In truth, he hadn't. He'd just imagined he would heed the summons, lie his arse off, and then carry on as normal. But what if Dumbledore probed deeper? What if he used his considerable power in some way to coerce the truth out of him?

He had no backup plan.

 _The headmaster is a person of great power, apprentice_. She reminded him. _Your overconfidence once again jeopardises our mission!_

Harry swallowed. "Master, I…"

 _Fix this. I tire of having to remind you of your duty, and the importance of what we are achieving,_ XoXaan snapped at him. _Until you have achieved something deserving my praise, do not contact me again!_

With that, the holocron's glow shut off abruptly, taking XoXaan's image with it and leaving Harry once more alone on his bed. Only belatedly did he realise he'd been sweating, and brushing his forehead with his sleeve revealed it to be quite wet.

He was afraid.

Crossing his legs and beginning his meditation, Harry tried to feed off of it, but found himself unable to. The realisation disturbed him, for fear, hatred, and fury were supposed to be that which gave him power — not that which dominated him. What had brought him to this state of affairs?

Upon reflection, he recognised that he was right to be afraid — in fact, he ought to be terrified. His overconfidence threatened to bring everything crashing down around him. He had become so accustomed to getting his way at the Dursleys and St. Grogory's — places where he was the most powerful person around by several orders of magnitude — that he had never really bothered to take into consideration the problems that might arise here, expecting a similarly compliant environment.

But something gave him pause. Was it really overconfidence? While he was willing to admit his fault there, he felt as thought it wasn't a sufficient explanation. There was more to it — the Force told him so.

Scrunching his brow, he looked deeper within himself for the answer that eluded him. Beside his pride, had there been another reason for his subpar actions? What had caused him to become so indolent? So passive?

The realisation hit him like the Hogwarts Express.

He was _enjoying_ Hogwarts.

A part of him — some deep, rebellious part — actually looked forward to his classes, to hanging out with his mates. It found the whole experience _fun_ and _joyful_. He found that thoughts of his year mates brought forth feelings of attachment and caring. Thoughts of Hermione and Neville also prompted similar responses, albeit lesser than those he felt towards Corner, Boot, and Goldstein.

This was...troubling.

How had he not realised this? What had caused this blind spot to develop? For all his power, he had allowed the Light Side to corrupt his will. Was it the castle itself? He had sensed its enormous power ever since the train had arrived at Hogsmeade, and he _had_ perceived its ability to corrupt would-be followers. Given enough time, anyone too permeated in the Light would be bound to feel its calling.

It frustrated him to not know the answer. To have to grasp blindly like this. He was a Sith Apprentice, not some doe-eyed idiot child. He had left behind his life of servitude to others in order to create a world where _he_ made the rules, and others followed — as XoXaan told him was his destiny.

So why was the Light calling to him so insistently? More importantly — why was he allowing it into his heart?

Harry did not sleep well that night.


	6. On His Own

_**AN:** Hey guys!_

 _In case you didn't see my posts in Legacy of Uzushiogakure or Emperor, I've come back to writing after a particularly difficult year last year. Suffice to say, I went through some personal stuff, I didn't take it well, and my motivation to write dried up. Since then, however, I've recovered (somewhat), and have chosen to try my hand at a weekly update schedule, rotated between my three Fanfiction stories. In addition, I've begun writing a SciFi original story, posted at **FictionPress** and **Wattpad** under the same pen name. I hope you'll support me in that, too, but even if you decide to stick to my fanfics, I just hope you all know how much I appreciate the support you've given me over the years!_

 _With that said, the next update will be in three weeks!_

 _Enjoy!_

 _\- MB_

* * *

The realisation that his experiences were beginning to corrupt his Sith beliefs was distressing Harry.

In the following few days since his realization had hit him, he took to retreating to his bed as soon as it was socially acceptable and meditated on his problem. As XoXaan had warned him, she refused to give him aid until he found it in himself to rise above this challenge and all the others his carelessness had wrought.

The problem, he realised, was that back at the Dursleys, it had been _easy_ to hate. To feel anger. To draw on the darkest parts of his soul and feed off it. Be it his family, the neighbours, or his classmates, there were no innocents living on Privet Drive. Everyone back home — and he used the word as loosely as possible — was a constant reminder of his justified fury.

But here...in Hogwarts...no such thing existed.

Thus far, he had managed to avoid making rivalries and enemies — primarily, he'd convinced himself, as a way of keeping a low profile. After all, he didn't need a fellow student, or a staff member, hounding his every step with delusions of putting him in "his place." He had better things to do — Sith mysteries to figure out.

But perhaps that had been one of his miscalculations.

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to pinpoint anything in Hogwarts that might actually make him angry. Irritated, sure, but not _angry_. Or fearful. Or jealous. Without that emotional feedback, he found it harder and harder to call upon the Dark Side.

The problem lay in finding an adequate solution to this conundrum. He couldn't very well go out of his way to create enemies for himself; actively antagonising others was a profoundly un-Ravenclaw thing to do, as far as he understood, and would likely draw the attention of his Head of House and Dumbledore. That meant that any rival or enemy had to make the first move.

But _should_ he invent an enemy where none existed? Was that not counterproductive?

He paused in his meditations.

 _Was it?_

His thoughts turned to the lessons XoXaan had imparted upon him back at Privet Drive — specifically, that of Sidious and the end of the Rule of Two. The Sith records XoXaan had given him access to for the period in question had been enlightening, but the information that nagged at his memories the most right now was that of the plan that had led to the downfall of the Republic. For years, Sidious had cultivated the image of the dutiful Senator of Naboo for the Republic, all the while recruiting assets and associates who would set in motion the death knell of the very government he served.

According to XoXaan's histories, it had all culminated in the so-called Clone Wars — an engineered conflict that Sidious had deliberately instigated to mask his power grab. It had worked, and the Republic had fallen amidst thunderous applause.

Harry pondered on the lesson — was this the solution he'd been looking for? Engineering a bitter, internecine conflict in Hogwarts wouldn't take much effort — the Gryffindors and Slytherins already hated each other rather deeply. All _he_ 'd have to do is make both sides hate each other on a _personal_ level, rather than just as a function of the usual House rivalry for the dubious "honour" of winning that silly House Cup.

Still, his master's reproach rang loudly in his mind. He could not afford to be careless in this, and so he took great effort to tone down his excitement as he perused this possibility in his mind, letting the Force guide him in his meditation. Several questions already arose after cursory thought: for instance, how would he aggravate this conflict? Rumor? Direct action?

Who would be his agents? It was in neither Slytherin or Gryffindor's interests to allow their rivalry to escalate, and both sides certainly had wise enough members to prevent wholescale mobilisation, even if they were few and far between.

On the other hand, Harry could see the merits of adopting this course of action. If he achieved his goal, not only would the conflict distract Dumbledore from looking too closely at him, it would also likely spill into the other two Houses, including his own. With people being forced to take sides, House unity in Hogwarts — or at least among Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff — would become a thing of the past, corroding the Light's influence.

All of which, however, was predicated upon his successful ability to rouse up enough anger in both combating sides without the undue interference of cooler heads. He meditated on the plan, frowning as pieces of the puzzle slowly came together.

First, he realised, he had to identify the possible obstacles. All of his manipulations would be for nothing if cooler heads prevailed. Thus, it seemed obvious that he should identify who these cooler heads were for neutralisation. At the moment, he'd only had limited interactions with the Gryffindors, and even less with Slytherins, but he already knew that Hermione and Neville would both be decidedly anti-violence. They would have to go, one way or another. The rest he would have to observe in the coming days.

The second major obstacle he identified was _how_ he was going to pull this off. Whispering in his classmates' ears was inefficient and unlikely to succeed. Why would they listen to him? Not only did they not know him, he was also from another House. That brought him back to the question of agents: did he know of anyone who would willingly and unquestionably carry out his will in either House? The answer, unfortunately, was no. A rather obvious "no," in fact.

Which meant he had to resort to more direct methods — the Force? It was possible; he had already demonstrated his ability — if rather primitive ability — to use the Force to manipulate the minds of others when he'd targeted the Nott boy. In theory, this would be simpler, however, as it wouldn't require complete mental domination. Rather, he would simply be gently pushing both sides into doing something they were already considering.

What else?

He frowned. Teachers, of course. The Heads of Houses were unlikely to be predisposed towards inter-House conflict, nor would Dumbledore stand for it. On the other hand, students did have a habit of doing things even when teachers disapprove, but even then, he had to ensure their interference was as limited as possible — elsewise they might promise dire enough repercussions among their wards to prevent the conflict from escalating.

Harry nodded slowly to himself as the plan began to materialise in his mind, slowly withdrawing from his meditative state. He would have to act fast — if his estimations were correct, the day when Dumbledore would seek him out was not far away, and he needed the man as distracted as possible.

Glancing at the bed beneath him, under which lay his magically sealed trunk with XoXaan's holocron safely stored inside, he nodded to himself. His Master was right: he was Sith, and he had to solve his problems without her. Only then would he prove himself worthy of the mysteries she could impart upon him.

Checking the time, he smiled coldly as he noticed that breakfast time was approaching. Good.

Ignoring the snores of his roommates, he opened his bed curtains and got out of bed, ready to seize the day and put his plan into action.

Time to teach Hogwarts a lesson in darkness.

* * *

Opportunities to incite conflict, unfortunately, were not as common as he would've liked. Class after class, Harry tried to see if he could find a window of opportunity in which to carry out his plan, to no avail. There was simply not enough time to intercept lone Gryffindors nor Slytherins and manipulate them without also ending up late to class — and if his target and himself were coincidentally late to class at the same time, then that was a potential trail that led back to him.

Nor was control of his power as fine tuned as he would've liked, and trying to manipulate someone's mind half-assedly was a recipe for disaster. He'd tried the mind trick on a few fellow Ravenclaws, but that had resulted in a 4 out of 10 success rate — much too low for his purposes.

Normally, he would've gone to XoXaan for advice, but the holocron was silent, no matter how much he pleaded with it. His master was truly sticking to her word: unless he proved himself to her, she would not answer his calls.

He idly wondered if other Sith apprentices had been forced to go through this sort of process.

Harry sighed as his latest attempt at manipulation failed, the test subject — some fifth year fellow Ravenclaw — merely scratching his head in response.

There had to be a better way, he grouched mentally as he looked down at his hand. Why had it worked on the Nott boy? Why didn't it work now? What changed? Retrospection didn't help much, unfortunately; the more he recalled the memory, the more he tried to emulate those feelings, to no avail.

Was his connection to the Dark Side simply slipping further than he'd believed?

The possibility scared him. Without the Force, he was just another wizard. Without the Force, he would be powerless back at Privet Drive once the school year let out.

The thought infuriated him far more than he would've liked to admit. He _hated_ being powerless. He _hated_ having to survive on the whim of others. If only this stupid, useless power would _just_ —

"Oi!"

Harry blinked away his mounting fury, returning to reality. Near him, he saw a series of cups had tipped over, spilling their contents on the table and on the laps of unfortunate students. As soft curses were uttered — not to mention derisive laughter from other, nearby students — Harry stared for a few moments before he began to feel elation.

That had been him. _His power_. _He_ had caused that. The Dark Side had not yet abandoned him!

As reassuring as that was, however, he realised that it was going to more or less be a one-off. He could not guarantee this kind of result forever. He needed a way to ground his anger more solidly. To find a way to establish some sort of _permanence_ to it.

But what? His attempts at inciting conflict weren't working so far. Belatedly, he realised his powers were less developed than he'd arrogantly assumed. While his anger at his own helplessness would grant him some respite from the onslaught of the Light Side, he knew it was a matter of time before its tendrils wrapped themselves around his heart and drove the Dark from him.

And the worst part was that, by then, he would _welcome_ such a thing.

He couldn't let that happen. Not if he wanted to remain powerful. Relevant. In control of his own destiny.

His dark thoughts stayed with him as he suddenly excused himself from the table and he made his way out of the Great Hall. He didn't think anyone had paid particular attention to his foul mood, but he knew it was a matter of time before his self-control would crack.

"Harry?"

Harry stopped mid step, turning to see who had called to him. To his surprise, it was Hermione. He hadn't realised she'd followed him out of the Great Hall.

"Hermione?" he asked smartly before quickly recovering his wits. "Is something wrong?"

She frowned at him. "I was about to ask _you_ that," she said. "I saw you leave the Great Hall. You were...angry."

That raised all sorts of alarms in his head. He hadn't believed it possible for a girl as devoid of understanding of basic social cues as Hermione to read him as easily as that. More to the point, he'd been _sure_ his "mask," so to speak, had been firmly in place until _after_ he'd left the Great Hall.

"I'm not angry," he said almost automatically. "I'm fine."

Hermione's brow furrowed deeper. She wasn't buying it. Why not? His tone was correct. His posture as well. He was even smiling at her. Why was she being so suspicious?

"If you say so," she said, sounding, to his ears, a little bit hurt. Damnit. Was she more sensitive to his emotional state than he'd thought?

"It's...nothing," he insisted. "Just a little stressed over something."

"Can I help?" she asked eagerly. "You're always helping Neville and me, so we'd love to pay back the favour."

Harry thought about that. Technically, Hermione _was_ one of the smartest people he knew — not that _that_ meant much, considering his limited social experiences. However, perhaps his greatest problem right now wasn't a lack of brains, but rather a lack of different perspectives. XoXaan was herself the caretaker of many _thousands_ of experiences stored in the holocron. Her wisdom was the analysis of these experiences. She had an _outside_ perspective on the past.

Maybe that's what he needed right now? An outside perspective.

He paused again. No. That was against the Sith Code's need for self-sufficiency. If he relied on others, then he was weak. If he was weak, he was unworthy.

No...Hermione couldn't be dragged into Sith business. She had no place there.

But...she _was_ smart. He had already conceded that. She was notorious for being a regular at the library, too — an even more frequent resident there than his fellow Ravenclaws. Perhaps, if she couldn't be used to help him solve his problem, he could put her talents to better use anyway?

Hermione seemed to take his silence badly, however. Once again, she had ducked her head, burying her chin into her clavicle and shuffling her feet. It was clear that she _really_ wanted this. A small smile began to grow as he began to slowly understand what XoXaan had been chiding him for.

"Maybe you _can_ help me," he said softly, taking a step forward into her personal space and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. As he calculated, she raised her head to stare back at him.

"I can?" she asked, almost unbelievingly.

Harry's smile grew wider. To her, it was a sign that he was genuine. To him, that she was truly being hooked. "Of course. You're one of the brightest people I know, Hermione. If anyone can help me, you can."

Her fellow student blushed at the compliment, but maintained her eye contact. "Thanks, I guess," she said haltingly before perking up. "So? What's the problem?"

Harry looked around them, remembering that they were still very near the Great Hall doors. It wouldn't behoove him to get caught redhanded by a teacher or fellow student. Or any one of those infernal paintings he was sure reported directly to Dumbledore. Or the ghosts.

In all honesty, this school was _ridiculously_ lacking in privacy.

Still, he figured he knew where they could go. Pulling Hermione soflty by the arm, he led them to a classroom, where he looked around for anyone lingering nearby before shutting the door. When he turned back, Hermione was looking at him quizzically.

"Harry?"

Harry shot her a mischievous smile. "Sorry, didn't want to be overheard," he explained before taking a seat at one of the benches and motioning for her to do the same, opposite him. As she did, he continued.

"I'm afraid I've been somewhat irritable, as you noticed, because I've been...researching something, and my….sources have unfortunately dried up," he explained, trying to misdirect her as little as possible in case she really _could_ read him like a book.

Hermione, however, seemed to perk up at the mention of research. Not for the first time — either by himself or his fellow Ravenclaws — he wondered how such a bookish girl had managed to get Sorted into Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw.

"What are you researching?" she asked, barely pausing to take a breath. "You know, the library probably has something! It's a wonderful place, you know? They have books on everything, and—!"

"Hermione!" he said amidst laughter. "Breathe!"

She pinked up. "Sorry."

Harry smiled. "It's alright. Just...let me finish, alright?"

"Okay…"

Harry nodded, glad to see he could still somewhat keep her in line. Still, his mind raced to try and keep his interests as well hidden as possible, which meant making up a reason he needed her help. "So, what I've been looking into is something I've been thinking about since your housemates and the Slytherins have started getting into trouble."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ugh, don't remind me."

"Quite," Harry agreed, mentally scoffing at her disdain for conflict. "Anyway, I was wondering if perhaps there was a way to magically...manipulate emotions," he half-fibbed. In truth, such a spell could help him artificially magnify his anger and hatred to levels where the Dark Side would become much easier to manipulate. It was also, however, probably a pipe dream, and thus a convenient way to get rid of Hermione's curiosity into his affairs.

If she managed to complete the request, he won. If she didn't, he still won.

Sith cunning at its finest. Ish.

Still, she wasn't one to immediately jump at his beck and call — yet — so she seemed naturally confused about what he was asking of her. "Why would you need something like that?" she asked innocently.

Harry leaned forward, prompting her to do the same. "If you think about it, a lot of the fights happen because the Gryffindors and Slytherins get too emotionally invested. A spell like that would peacefully resolve the fights before they can get violent."

Hermione's eyes widened, probably having never considered such an application. It wasn't her fault — she was simply too good natured to consider essentially overwriting someone's emotional state.

Which meant he needed to sweeten the deal before she reached that conclusion. "I bet the teachers would really appreciate such a spell, since it would cut down on infirmary intake."

That seemed to do the trick. Hermione's eyes widened even further at the suggestion of praise from the teaching staff. She was predictable that way. In a heartbeat, her attitude brightened considerably and she was babbling at full speed about how excited she was to get to work, already theorising other possible uses for the spell.

He was taken aback, truth be told. Hermione was smart, yes, but he hadn't quite realised _how_ smart she potentially was. Some of the things she was suggesting were...actually quite amazing. Using an emotional regulation spell to treat mental illness? Using it to moderate debates to ensure maximum civility? Perhaps it was the Dark Side's hold on him, but he hadn't quite given his idea much more consideration aside from how it could help _him_.

If he could somehow turn that eager intellectualism to the service of the Dark Side…

Oh, the things he could do to the world!

* * *

 _ **A few days later…**_

The Dark Forest lived up to its name, all things considered.

Harry looked about him, taking note of the wild, ancient flora that seemed to extend forever in every direction before him. There was little if any grass on the ground, the huge, ancient trees having long blocked any sunlight from piercing through the canopy. The sounds coming from further in were eerie, but to a Sith apprentice like him, they were more an object of curiosity than of fear — though the minute fear he _did_ feel helped ground him in the Dark Side.

"Ah cannae believe ye actually want tae go in thaur, Harry," a rumbling, concerned voice said with a thick, Scottish brogue.

Ah, yes, his tour guide, so to speak.

It hadn't been easy to arrange this. Not easy at all. First, he'd had to learn about the Dark Forest's rather... _dark_ reputation — pun intended — from Hermione, which had taken some time, as he had to convince her his interest in it was purely academic. On another note, she had yet to find a spell to satisfy his request.

Then he'd needed an actual excuse to get in there. In the end, he'd settled on Potions. After Potions class a few days ago, he had gone up to Snape and asked for permission to go into the Dark Forest to hunt for ingredients.

" _And why, mister Potter, would you need to search for ingredients?" the tall, gaunt man had asked, sneering at him. "Are my stocks not...good enough for our resident celebrity?"_

 _Harry had mentally thanked his instinct to wait until the classroom had been emptied of other students before asking, or else he might've been made the butt of some lame joke._

" _Not at all, professor," he'd insisted. "Rather, I've heard from my upperclassmen that you've said that fresh ingredients are always better than the stored variety, especially when they come from places of great magical power, like Hogwarts."_

 _Snape had looked at him askance for a moment, peering down his long nose at him inscrutably. Yet, just from reaching out with the Force, Harry had felt the man's confusion and anger radiating off of him. Fortunately, the confusion seemed to outweigh the anger._

" _I see," he'd said eventually. "And may I ask why this sudden interest in procuring fresh potions ingredient?"_

 _Harry smiled. "Personal practice. Theoretical practice, like the homework you assign us, is all well and good, but for something as hands-on as Potions, wouldn't a more practical approach be better?"_

 _Snape had slowly nodded. "Yes, it would." Harry had felt the anger subside a bit as something...else began to radiate off of him. He couldn't quite place it, but it made him feel...sad? "Very well, Potter. I will grant you permission for one excursion to the Dark Forest, but only under teacher supervision. You are not to practice anything we have not yet dealt with in class, and if I hear you've disobeyed me, you can rest assured that lost House points will be the least of your problems. Is that understood?"_

 _Harry had grinned and nodded. Mission accomplished._

He had fretted, of course, at who exactly would accompany him into the Dark Forest. The person the school had chosen, however, was _perfect_.

Hagrid was the half-giant's name, and mental acuity was most certainly _not_ his game.

Good natured and a bit too happy to be accompanying him into the Dark Forest for his liking, Hagrid was smart enough to know how to deal with any unforeseen dangers they might encounter in the Forest without being smart enough to realise Harry's real agenda.

That being figuring out whether this place had any connection to the Dark Side.

XoXaan had once told him of Sith worlds where the Dark Side radiated virtually everything. Where creatures were mutated into horrible creatures that would kill you on sight, and where Sith rituals were exponentially more powerful just by being conducted there.

Considering the reputation of the Dark Forest, he'd gambled on the possibility that this was such a place.

"The best ingredients come from the least likeable places, Hagrid," he told his companion. "And I've heard even Professor Snape goes in here every so often to gather rare ingredients. Is that true?"

"Aye, but professur Snape is an adult wi' a lot ay experience, Harry. Are ye sure yoo'll be able tae fin' whit yoo're lookin' fur?"

"Fairly sure," Harry confirmed. "If I get doubtful, I can ask you, right?" he asked looking up at the bushy-bearded man. "You know this place like the back of your hand, I hear."

He could've sworn he saw a patch of red skin flare up behind the beard, indicating the man was blushing. "Ah...well…"

Harry smiled. He had him. Venturing into the Dark Forest, he soon heard the man's heavy footsteps hurrying up to catch up to him — which wasn't that hard, considering the size difference.

The moment Harry crossed the threshold of the forest, he felt it.

It was like that moment when he had first seen Hogwarts from the boats on the Great Lake. Except, back then, he had felt awash in the Light. Here, he could feel the Dark Side swarm his every pore, rising from beneath the ground to greet him.

He actually had to stop walking because the moment was so overwhelming. One hand grasped at his chest as the Darkness threatened to choke him, and he could faintly hear Hagrid calling out to him worriedly. He hadn't collapsed yet, so the huge man didn't yet have reason to remove him from the premises, but he had precious seconds left to reassert control over his body before he calculated he would pass out, ruining this expedition.

Drawing on the well of Dark Side power surging through him, he fed it into his anger at his own helplessness and forced the Dark Side from his mind and body. He was _Sith_ , for crying out loud! He would _control_ the Dark Side, not let it control _him_!

Slowly, the haze began to fade from his sight as the Dark Side ceased to be as overwhelming as it'd felt moments ago. Mere seconds might've passed, but to Harry, it had felt like an eternity before he managed to take a deep, gasping breath, having finally reassumed control.

"Harry! Ur ye alrecht?" the giant was practically bawling now.

"I'm...fine," Harry assured him, waving him off. "Sorry. Don't know what came over me."

"Ur ye sure ye want tae keep goin'? Mebbe ye shoods go see th' Ma'am Pomfrey."

He quickly shook his head. No. He couldn't give up now. Not when his _answer_ was _so close_. "It's alright," he insisted. "I'm fine now. Let's keep going."

Hagrid seemed unsure, but nodded nonetheless. Harry made a note of that — Hagrid seemed less decisive than his huge stature would suggest. It suggested he would be very easy to manipulate, especially considering that he seemed willing to take everything Harry said at face value.

As they progressed further into the woods, Harry could feel the Dark Side further surging through him, though he managed to keep its most deleterious effects at bay. Given his excuse, he was forced to actually search for Potions ingredients, but it actually turned out to be a somewhat interesting exercise in foraging, so he couldn't really complain.

Every so often, though, Hagrid would become distracted or stand guard a bit aways from him, and Harry would draw on the Dark Side, hoping to experiment how the surge in Dark Side energy had affected him.

Focusing on a large rock nearby, he glanced back at Hagrid to make sure the half-giant wasn't paying attention before reaching out to the rock with the Force and mentally ordering it to rise.

The rock practically shot up into the sky, prompting a surprised yelp that had Hagrid spinning about and looking at him.

"Harry?!"

Thinking quickly on his feet, Harry smiled back at the half-giant, desperately reaching out with his powers to sense where the rock was in the sky. He had to catch it with the Force before it hit the ground, or else he was _screwed_ the moment it made impact.

"It's alright, Hagrid! Just pricked my finger on a thorn!"

Finally, he found it. The rock was...Merlin, it was just a few dozen feet from hitting the ground! In his mind, he practically _begged_ Hagrid to turn back around and ignore what was happening before it was too late, and, to his surprise, the half-giant's expression suddenly became a bit cloudy before he shrugged and turned his back on Harry.

The sudden turn of events so surprised him, in fact, that he completely forgot to catch the falling rock. When it did hit the ground rather hard, he jumped in fright, but Hagrid stayed put.

It took him a moment to realise what had happened. But when he did, he could barely keep the grin off his face.

Hagrid had _obeyed_ him. Not through verbal persuasion, but because of the _Force_.

He grinned as he felt the power surge through him again.

Oh, yes. This would do just _fine_.

* * *

"Did you hear what happened?"

Harry feigned polite interest. "That's a rather vague question, Terry. What, specifically, do you mean?" he asked.

His friend drew nearer as Harry continued his dinner. "Slytherin and Gryffindor, you berk!" the boy hissed. "I hear one of the snakes went crazy during Charms and tried to sabotage some Gryffindor's spell!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. Had he overdone his compulsion? The power surge he'd gotten from the Dark Forest had made his control a bit wonky, truth be told. "I hadn't heard. What do you mean, 'went crazy'?"

"Lost his mind, he did," Michael butted in then as he took his seat opposite Terry. Anthony soon joined them opposite Harry. "I heard he blatantly tried to hex some Gryffindor lass. Right there in front of Flitwick!"

"I heard he _did_ hex her!"

"Nah, mate. He was trying to sabotage her, not hex her."

"You guys need to pipe down," a girl's voice interrupted them then. The foursome turned to see their upperclassman, Cho Chang, frowning at them. "They're just rumors. No sense spreading them."

"But is it _true_?" Michael pressed.

"Does it matter?" Cho asked rhetorically. Unfortunately for her position, however, her friend, a girl Harry only identified as Edgecomb, seemed far more willing to engage in gossip.

"I know a 'Puff who was in the infirmary!" she stage whispered at them. "Says the Slytherin had to be given a potion to calm him down!"

"Marietta!" Cho protested.

"So it's true!" Anthony crowed.

Harry didn't particularly care — all he'd wanted to know was whether his ploy had succeeded or not, and evidently it had. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Gryffindor table and took notice of the sullen, angry looks a lot of the upper years were sporting. Looking to his front, he saw the Slytherins looking neutrally sombre.

Word had spread fast in both houses, it seemed.

Ignoring the subsequent chatter about the incident, Harry entered a soft state of meditation as he reached out with the Force and tried to gauge the emotional reaction to his actions. Already, he could feel the usual joy of the Great Hall dimmed with pockets of anger. However, he was still a long way from achieving critical mass.

He frowned — that would require stepping up his campaign with more direct and irrefutable incidents of extreme House rivalry. The problem was that he couldn't guarantee his power boost would last.

Already, he felt his invigorated powers start to decline. Only a couple of days had passed since his visit to the Dark Forest, and yet the Light had almost immediately begun its work in trying to snuff out his boosted abilities. That wasn't good, as it meant that he would need repeat visits to maintain control.

The problem was that he needed a consistent excuse. Snape had been relatively pleased with the ingredients he had brought back — though he'd declared some of them unfit for use — but he'd stayed firm on the fact that this had been a one-off experience.

Though, he _had_ insinuated that high marks could lead to further excursions in the future, so Harry kept that in mind.

He needed a more regular reason to go back out there, however. With the power boost, he hadn't even needed prolonged contact with his victims. A mere glance at the desired victim had been all he'd needed to allow him to implant a suggestion. Now, though, he was practically back where he'd started, having to _really_ focus to get even a minute response.

He'd tried to go back to XoXaan, to see if his discovery had been enough to warrant an audience, but even with his power boost, she had refused to heed his calls. It infuriated him somewhat, but he recognised the rebuke for what it was.

What had he achieved, really? A temporary salve for a _very_ stubborn problem that wouldn't go away that easily. He needed something more permanent, a tangible gain for the Dark Side, before she would grace her apprentice again.

Something like a new convert.

Immediately, his eyes searched out for Hermione. Over the past few days, she had taken to giving him constant updates about her research, seemingly convinced that Harry's "noble" goal of finding a solution to the problem of fighting among Houses had to be given her every waking attention not already dedicated to schoolwork.

A kinder, more compassionate Harry might've felt pity for the young girl, whose social abilities were clearly not optimal, reflected in the few friendships she seemed to have. Only his Ravenclaw companions, and Neville, seemed willing to interact with her on a prolonged basis. Michael and the other Ravenclaws did so because she was brilliant, though the upperclassmen seemed irritated at the notion of a Gryffindor being smarter than them; and Neville was her friend, as far as he could see, because she was his only supportive friend, too.

Unfortunately for her, Harry was not nearly as kind or compassionate as he pretended to be.

So he encouraged her daily reports, making sure to keep her on the right track and preventing her from realising any potential moral quandaries that might arise from using the spell. These interactions, in turn, had led to him realising something quite fundamental about Hermione.

She was _desperate_ for affection.

Not romantic affection, no. Nor affection from her teachers. She needed affection from her _peers_ , her _friends_. She wanted to be praised for more than just her brain, and Harry was the _only_ person who gave it to her consistently. Neville was too shy and too emotionally depressed to do it, and his Ravenclaw housemates were more interested in her intellectual ability than of her as a person.

Only Harry made her feel worthy. The joy he could feel radiating off of her when they spoke and he validated her with praise was practically nauseating.

But telling, too. And it made her easy to track.

Which was why he found it odd that he couldn't see her at the Gryffindor table tonight. She was usually a reliable fixture near the end of the Gryffindor table, as physically far away from the rest of her year-mates as she possibly could be. Only Neville seemed at his usual spot, with his back to Harry. Glancing up and down the table, he took note that three of his Gryffindor year-mates seemed to be immersed in some kind of heated discussion that ended when the Weasley said something sharp. The other two didn't seem too pleased, but nodded and returned to their food.

And then the Force tingled. It didn't hurt, but it _did_ make him feel like the bottom of his stomach had fallen out. Something was wrong.

The Force was warning him about something.

But what? The only thing missing here was...Hermione.

Panic began to surge in him. Was Hermione in danger? That couldn't be. The girl was the most safety-conscious preteen he had ever met. If the rules was a person and a guy, he was dead sure she'd date them in a few years' time.

But the Force was insistent, and it was directing him at Neville.

Before anyone at his table could ask him why he'd suddenly stiffened, he was walking over to the Gryffindor table at a brisk pace. Quickly, he tapped on Neville's shoulder, prompting the chubby boy to turn and look at him, surprised.

"Harry?"

He wasted no moment. "Where's Hermione?"

Neville looked confused, but Harry spied the three Gryffindors he'd noticed earlier wincing. "She said she wasn't feeling too good and went to the bathroom near the Potions classroom. Why?"

Harry felt his anger surge as he quickly put two and two together. Somehow, for some reason, the Gryffindor trio had done something to Hermione to make her seek the safety of a bathroom. Despite himself, he felt a surge of protective fury, and for a brief moment, considered unleashing his powers on the boys before remembering where he was.

Then again, he wouldn't have had a chance to begin with, either, because one of the Great Hall's doors swung open at that moment, revealing a very distressed, very tired Professor Quirrell.

"Troll in the dungeons!" he shouted before swaying on his feet. "Just thought you should know," he added, before then fainting dead away on the ground.

Like everyone else in the room, Harry turned to look at the man, disbelieving what he'd just heard.

"What?" he asked softly, stunned. The Force's warning was growing in strength now, and only belatedly did he realise why. His face twisted with horror as he grasped the full ramifications of Quirrell's announcement.

"Hermione!"


	7. The Troll In The Room

**_AN:_** _Sorry for the delay! Here's the much-awaited troll fight! I hope you enjoy! Also, remember to check out my original fiction at **FictionPress** or **Wattpad** if you're interested, posted under the same author name! :)_

 _Cheers!_

* * *

If you asked Harry how he was able to get to the dungeon's girl's loo so quickly, he wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. At least, not at first.

It was only as he stood there, face flushed, chest heaving, that he realised he had channelled some of the Force into his limbs to get him to go faster. It was a trick he hadn't really put to use since his days at St. Grogory's. Thus, his present lack of endurance was something of a harsh critique of that lapse in physical conditioning.

As he stared at the ruined door frame before him, the looming figure of the troll just a few steps away from him, he made a mental note to find a way to resume his physical training.

However, all thoughts about how best to do that fled his mind the moment he heard Hermione's piercing shriek of terror.

Now, a Sith was not a creature of love. Or compassion. Masters like XoXaan did a rather effective job to stamp such "weakness" out of their pupils. Similarly, beyond the mild affection one felt for one's pets, Harry had no emotional bond to Hermione. As far as he was concerned, she was a useful tool, not an equal.

But she _could_ be. She could be his first effective recruit into the Sith Order. She certainly had the darkness within her — it was just _waiting_ to be let out.

Which made her survival at present a critical priority.

The problem was his weakness. How does one defeat a Mountain Troll? According to the texts he'd read, these lumbering, idiotic creatures had thick hides, and they more than made up for their lack of wits with an overabundance of physical power. Even a single, errant blow could potentially smash his bones into a fine dust.

As far as his instincts were concerned, this was a fight far out of his league. As far as his Sith mind was concerned, however, this was just a major obstacle he needed to defeat. If he didn't, how could Master XoXaan ever trust him to deal with anything significant? She would expect him to deal with the troll, even without a lightsaber in hand.

That's the king of master she was: you either sank, or you swam. And to make sure she had the right pupil, she took that idea up a notch by burdening you up with extra weights just to make it a bit harder.

Again, Hermione's screams of terror pierced the sound of the troll grunting in annoyance as it lumbered forward.

Alright, then. First things first.

He flung out a hand and, channeling his anger, unleashed a barrage of blue-white lightning at the troll. Unfortunately, other than a twitch in the monster's shoulder, it didn't seem to affect it. If anything, it paused for a moment, scratched said shoulder, then shrugged and took another step forward.

"Oi!" he yelled at it. That actually proved effective, as the mean, dumb brute turned to look at him quizzically. "Come and get me, you ugly, putrid waste of space!"

The insults themselves probably flew right over the troll's idiotic brain, yet it somehow understood it was being insulted, as it bellowed in anger at him — the same way a lion or a tiger roared at a challenger.

Hmm. Perhaps it wasn't the insults that had gotten to it, but rather that it considered Hermione to be its property?

He smirked in response. The beast had to be taught its place, it seemed. Silently, he watched as the troll's bulging muscles tensed in anticipation of its predictable charge at him. As expected, it roared again before running right at him, its disproportionately smaller head ramming through some of the stonework.

Having seen the charge coming, however, Harry was well clear of its path of destruction as it slammed headlong into the hallway's wall. To its credit, the blow didn't seem to faze it. As soon as the dust settled, it was back in view, scanning its surroundings for him. Again, Harry extended his hands and shot lightning at it, keeping up the current for a few seconds this time. The creature flinched this time, likely as a result of the frightening visual. However, it quickly realised that the lightning was not as painful as it looked and glowered at him.

"Damn," Harry muttered as it bellowed again. "New plan."

He watched the troll raise its club — more of a thick, broken branch than an actual club, in truth — and decided not to let it follow through. Spying some of the collapsed stonework, he reached out with the force and flung it at the troll's wrist. The thick, broken stone connected, and while it didn't seem to cut into the thick hide, it was enough to get the troll to yelp in pain, but not enough to get it to drop the club.

Cursing under his breath, Harry called upon his training and dove _towards_ the troll, narrowly dodging the creature's blind swing. Rolling underneath it, his senses were struck with the nasty waft of the troll's disgusting body odour, causing him to gag as he regained his footing just behind it.

Unfortunately, that was enough of a distraction for the troll to turn on its heel, clipping him in the shoulder with a swat of its free hand. The blow sent Harry spilling on the floor painfully, his shoulder throbbing in pain.

"Shite!" he hissed as he held onto his aching shoulder. Was it broken? He tried to move it and was rewarded with a jolt of sharp pain. However, his arm was responding, which meant it wasn't broken — just very bruised. "At least there's that," he mumbled.

The pain made him mad, though, and he drew on it like a dehydrated man receiving water for the first time in a while. The pain dulled — it was still there, but it was now far more manageable. More importantly, he could feel his grasp on the Dark Side strengthen as he let his fury wash over him.

"Big mistake, arsehole!" he yelled, again extending his hands and firing off some lightning at it — this time, aimed at the creature's smallish head. The first arc of lightning was wide off the mark, courtesy of a flinch, but the second one hit home, a tendril of lightning hitting the troll right in the eye.

It howled in pain but was momentarily paralysed as Harry poured everything he had into the lightning. Every nerve ending in its being had to feel like it was on fire right now, and it showed. Its arms were outstretched, hands as well — all of its limbs shaking uncontrollably from the overflow of electric energy coursing through its being. Even from a couple of meters away, Harry could even start to smell its flesh as it cooked from the inside.

He grinned and pumped up the power by firing off another arc of lightning at it from the hand that had missed. This time, his aimed prove true, and hit the other eye, as well as its open mouth.

The creature's shrieks grew even louder as Harry sought to effectively torture it to death. Yet, Harry started to see a very definitive problem with this plan — he was running out of juice...and faster than the troll was dying.

Eventually, his lightning died out, but the beast was still alive, though blinded and heavily injured. He fell to his hands and knees gasping from the exertion, emulating the troll, but his head shot up when he heard the last thing he ever wanted to hear right now.

"Harry?"

"Hermione! Get back—!"

It was too late. Perhaps out of instinct, or just bad luck, the troll blindly lashed out at the sudden, new arrival. Before Hermione had a chance to scream, the troll's backhand had nicked her in the side, slamming her against the stone wall with a sickening splat.

" _ **NO!**_ " he yelled impotently as he watched Hermione crumble to the ground, an ugly splatter of blood decorating the wall where her head had hit.

Fury the likes of which he had never felt before filled him in that instant. Fury at his impotence. Fury at the creature, for injuring him. Fury at its _gall_ to even lay a hand on what was rightfully _**his**_ property!

He let out a feral roar as his rage hit its peak, the very walls shaking from the amount of Dark Side power he channelled in that one moment. Even the troll seemed taken aback by the display.

" _DIE!_ " he yelled at it, hands outstretched. Yet, this time, he did not fire off more electricity at it. Instead, he grasped at something a bit more poetic, all things considered.

Its heart.

The troll, clearly having expected more lightning to come flying at it, was momentarily confused by the absence of pain until its eyes suddenly shot open and a strangled shriek ripped out of its mouth. Its large, grubby hands clawed at its own chest as it fell on its knees, the pain of Harry's grasp on its heart increasing with every additional ounce of pressure he applied to it.

His rage dulling his pain and exhaustion, Harry got to his feet and slowly walked over to the twitching troll as it rolled onto its back, still screaming in agony as it tried to dig into its chest. He stood over it and looked down at its pained eyes with a cold, furious scowl.

"You took what was mine," he hissed at it as his clutching hand tightened further. The troll spasmed in response. "For that, know this, if you can even comprehend my words: I will not rest until every single one of your kind has been exterminated from this world."

Whether the troll understood him or not was academic to Harry, though he swore he saw a spark of understanding and terror in its dumb eyes as he made his vow. He hoped it did.

"Die in agony," he pronounced imperiously before applying the full might of the Dark Side to his attack on the troll's heart. The troll went into spasms of pain before Harry finally finished clutching his upheld hand, the Dark Side letting him feel the moment the troll's heart was crushed.

The creature gave one more death throe before collapsing onto the stonework floor with a heavy death rattle. Its tongue was hanging out the side of its mouth, eyes burnt out from his earlier assault. The crisp and nasty smell of cooked troll flesh assaulted his nostrils, prompting Harry to sneer in disgust.

With his foe defeated, however, Harry had better things to do. Looking over to where Hermione lay crumpled, he slowly walked over, his rage diminishing slightly as something else — regret, maybe? — asserted itself in his soul.

He found her where he'd last spotted her — lying on the floor by the ruined bathroom entrance, a pool of blood surrounding her head, soaking her bushy hair. Gently, he turned her over from her side and winced at the injuries he saw.

The entire right side of Hermione's face looked like one giant bruise, stained with her own blood. Her jaw was noticeably broken, and he could even spot a few loose teeth lying in the pool of blood. Her skin was broken in numerous areas, with the faint white of bone jutting out of her cheek and parts of her jaw. Brushing her hair out of her face softly, he grimaced at the size of the head injury she'd sustained.

She had to be dead. She simply had to be. This amount of injury was simply unsurvivable.

Thus, it seemed to Harry like nothing short of a miracle when he noticed she was still breathing. Barely, but noticeably.

"I can't believe it…" he breathed. "Hermione?!"

"MISS GRANGER!"

Harry's head shot up instinctively, as did one hand, ready to blast any further enemies. He only belatedly remembered to pull out his wand to hide his abilities. Even so, it proved entirely unnecessary, as the incoming group, who sounded as though they were further down the hallway, was not hostile.

It was the cavalry. Too damned late for his liking.

Still crouching by Hermione's body, Harry raised his wand hand and shot out some sparks. "Over here!" he shouted. He glanced over at Hermione. If anyone could save her, it would be the staff. Perhaps this entire fiasco could still be salvaged to his benefit.

When the teachers arrived, Harry forestalled any demands and questions by gesturing at Hermione. "She's injured!" he said urgently. "She took a blow to the head!"

Much to his dismay, the leader of the group was Dumbledore himself, who seemed to take stock of the situation in record time. Nodding in agreement at the unsaid suggestion, he quickly looked up. Harry wondered why, until the man sharply said, "Fawkes!"

In a blaze of fire, a magnificent bird appeared in the air between Dumbledore and his wounded students. Harry had to restrain a flinch when he saw it.

"To the infirmary! Go!" the headmaster ordered the bird, who nodded and quickly swooped down to Hermione. Before Harry had any chance to protest, it trilled a soft song before once again bursting into a flash of fire.

Flinching, Harry's hands shot up to his eyes and furiously rubbed at them. Once his sight was restored, he realised Hermione was no longer on the floor beside him. Only Dumbledore and the other teachers were there.

"Minerva," Dumbledore addressed his colleague first. "I'm sure Miss Granger would appreciate a familiar face when she wakes up."

The stern-looking witch nodded shakily before turning and leaving the premises quickly. Only then did Harry get a good look at who else was present. Dumbledore and Flitwick were the most prominent to him. Behind them, likely more interested in the troll corpse, were Snape and Quirrell.

"Harry?"

The headmaster's gentle voice snapped him out of his reverie, and Harry refocused his gaze on the man he knew to be his greatest obstacle to Sith glory. For all that, the man looked genuinely concerned.

"Harry, are you alright?" he asked.

Harry mentally shook off the cobwebs in his head before slowly nodding. "I'm fine, Professor," he half-lied, unwillingly flinching as his injured shoulder throbbed. "Just got nicked a bit."

"Let me see that!" Snape demanded as he pushed past his boss and Flitwick. Both men looked somewhat surprised at the sight of Severus Snape showing concern for a student not in Slytherin. Harry could only fathom why.

The Potions Master quickly vanished Harry's half-torn shirt and scrutinised his swelling shoulder, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Bone bruise _at least_ ," he declared. None-too-gently, he grasped Harry's arm and tried moving it. Harry bit down a pained gasp. "Doesn't look like Potter lost functionality of his arm, though."

Harry bit back a clever retort, knowing he was already being treated with far more gentleness and attention from the surly Potions Master than was usual. With his goal of going back to the Dark Forest in the future in mind, he chose not to antagonise his potential, future benefactor.

"I got it trying to distract the troll from Hermione," he preempted the headmaster's question, who closed his open mouth and nodded sternly.

"And Miss Granger? How did she sustain those injuries?" asked Flitwick seriously.

Harry winced as Snape let go of his arm. "I'd distracted the troll and gotten him out of the bathroom. I'd hoped Hermione had made a run for it, but she stayed put. The fear, I guess," he explained. "Then she called out to me just as the troll was injured. It struck out blindly and got her in the side."

Again, his head of house and Dumbledore nodded, with the headmaster turning to look at Quirrell behind him, who looked a bit pale — likely from the troll corpse. "Quirinus, please head to the infirmary and relay this information to Madame Pomfrey. I daresay she will be grateful for the added context."

The turban-wearing professor nodded feverishly. "Yes, headmaster! At once!" he agreed before fleeing the scene.

Dumbledore then turned back to look at Harry. Faintly, Harry felt something brush against his mind. Panicking, he did the one thing he could think of in his condition. He flinched. Immediately, the tendril fled.

"Mister Potter?" Flitwick asked worriedly, rushing to his side. Snape withdrew and went to stand by Dumbledore, occasionally shooting glances at the troll corpse. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Harry bit out. "The shoulder...I guess I didn't really pay any attention to it during the fight..."

"It's quite alright," Dumbledore told him gently. "Perhaps we should resume this conversation after you've visited Madame Pomfrey?"

Flitwick nodded. "I think that would be best," he agreed.

Harry paused before nodding. Rationally, it seemed like the best choice. As it was, he could not think of good excuses to account for the troll's injuries. By pushing back the necessary debriefing, he would buy himself enough time to make up a believable story.

"Yes, please," he said with a weak smile. It seemed to work, judging by Dumbledore and Flitwick's softening expressions. Only Snape seemed unmoved by his pain, though, in his eyes, Harry saw something akin to respect. Why?

His shoulder throbbed, derailing his curiosity.

Questions for later, he supposed.

* * *

 _ **Two Weeks Later...**_

It took some convincing, acting, and a _lot_ of spin, but eventually, both his Head of House and the Headmaster had left the infirmary satisfied with his story. Or, if not, doing an excellent impression of being convinced.

For the most part, they had seemed particularly impressed with his devotion to his endangered "friend." Yet, if that was the impression he'd given, he wasn't about to enlighten them otherwise.

Their explanation for their tardiness, on the other hand, was far less impressive. According to Flitwick, the Heads of Houses had all gone to take their students back to their dormitories. Only a headcount had revealed Harry and Hermione's absences. Fortunately, Michael and his other year-mates had immediately thereafter informed Flitwick that he'd been last seen talking to Neville, who in turn informed McGonagall about Harry running to find Hermione.

That had led to the news breaking of Hermione's reasons for hiding out in the bathroom. To the school's discredit, Hermione's tormentors suffered no punishment, given that they had technically broken no rules or deliberately attempted to cause Hermione harm via the troll. It was simply ruled an unfortunate accident.

Which was terrible news for Hermione, but wonderful news for Harry. He knew the bushy-haired girl's faith in the system would be severely shaken, if not completely shattered, once she heard the news. Vulnerable as she'd be, her dependence on Harry's approval would only increase as he offered her a shoulder to cry on, both metaphorically and literally.

And speaking of Hermione, the poor girl hadn't woken up yet from her coma. The blow to the head had apparently been critical, according to what he'd overheard the Headmaster and Madame Pomfrey say while they thought he was asleep. Had Fawkes not arrived when he did with her in tow, she would have likely perished. The phoenix — which he now learned Fawkes was — had even donated some tears, which apparently were a powerful healing agent.

He filed _that_ little tidbit away for future use.

Either way, it seemed like Pomfrey was unsure whether Hermione's injuries — particularly her head trauma — would have lasting effect on the girl. For all of magic's/the Force's ability to heal, the brain was apparently delicate enough that even witches and wizards hesitated at tampering with it. Medically speaking.

He wondered if perhaps XoXaan had some Force technique to heal such wounds; it would help him _greatly_ in converting Hermione to the Dark Side.

The day after his internment at the infirmary, he was released back into the general population. Compared to Hermione, his injuries had been minimal, and in Madame Pomfrey's capable hands, he had healed practically overnight — though he also credited XoXaan's meditation technique for his quick healing. Even after he was released, however, Harry insisted on coming back to the infirmary every day thereafter to visit Hermione, if only to keep up appearances and to give himself an excuse to be away from the other students — even his year-mates — who all demanded that he retell the story of his fight against the troll. Like he was some bard or something, retelling a heroic adventure.

It was amusing to him that they thought so. From his perspective, it had been a life-and-death situation wherein he had admittedly scrapped by. Not that he would ever admit to this weakness to anyone. Still, retelling it time and time again got tiring, so the excursions to visit Hermione were welcome breaks in his daily routine.

Besides his newfound fame, however, the only other positive note was that Snape seemed to take a greater, more teacher-ly interest in him. While he was still ever surly in class, the hook-nosed man seemed intent on actually teaching him about Potions, occasionally dropping backhanded compliments or suggesting alternative means of brewing a particular potion.

All of which he filed away for future use. He had yet, however, to authorise another expedition to the Dark Forest, but Harry was fairly certain that a good grade in the upcoming Potions test would nail him that one.

As for XoXaan's holocron…

Harry frowned as he sat next to Hermione. He had thought that taking down the troll would be enough to rouse his Master, but it hadn't. Encouragingly, however, it _had_ pulsed with dark energy when he'd called out to her, but it seemed more like a move designed to encourage him to keep going than any guarantee that she would hear him out. Further attempts to rouse her had all failed.

It was irritating.

Even so, Harry had kept up with his Sith training, meditating and drawing on his darker emotions whenever he had a chance and privacy. The fight against the troll had given him a new wellspring of anger to use, and he was more than happy to indulge himself in revenge fantasies against the troll community at large. The memory of Hermione getting injured was also enough to send spikes of fury coursing through him, though he hesitated to draw on the memory too often, lest its effect diminish over time.

"Hey, Harry…"

He nodded at Neville as the pudgy boy sat on the other side of Hermione's bed. Madame Pomfrey had been more than a little displeased at the "crowd" of visitors that Hermione received on a daily basis (which in truth only accounted for Harry and Neville), but had relented in consideration of the circumstances.

"Hey, Neville," Harry greeted the boy. "Is the Quidditch match over, then?"

Neville nodded. "Yeah. Gryffindor lost to Slytherin," he reported.

Harry nodded and shrugged. He didn't much care for the sport itself — XoXaan had, in fact, discouraged him from most sports while growing up, arguing that they were a distraction from his Sith studies. Still, they were a necessary evil in terms of social interactions, and were it not for Hermione's condition, he would've been expected to attend.

How bothersome.

"How's she doing?" Neville asked softly.

"Same as always."

The Longbottom heir nodded shyly, and Harry had to scoff. Surely, the boy had to know that there wasn't going to be much change to their mutual acquaintance's condition until she woke up. Most of her facial injuries had healed well under Madame Pomfrey's attention, though he could still spy a scar here or there.

"It's not right."

Harry hummed quizzically at Neville's sudden, fierce statement.

"Those boys who bullied her," Neville elaborated, scowling at the floor. "It's not right that they didn't get punished for putting her in that position."

Harry didn't particularly disagree — after all, they had nearly cost him a valuable pawn — but chose instead to keep his silence. It seemed to egg Neville on.

"I mean...why can't Professor McGonagall see that she wouldn't have been injured if only they hadn't bothered her?" the pudgy boy asked, his hands clasped tightly against one another.

Harry raised an interested eyebrow. The boy was letting off some pretty dark vibes right now. "According to the headmaster, they didn't technically break any rules," he pointed out.

"Then the rules are stupid!" Neville suddenly hissed, shooting off a spike of Dark Side energy that went completely undetected by anyone not called Harry Potter, who straightened up in surprise.

He looked at Neville with new eyes — like most, he had practically written off the pudgy Longbottom heir. He was weak willed, spineless even, and wholly unwilling to make waves. Yet, for whatever reason, he seemed greatly attached to Hermione, and his present anger, though righteous, was wholly uncharacteristic of him.

Perhaps he had misjudged Neville? Perhaps here was another potential acolyte?

Whatever his thoughts on the matter were, however, they were quickly dismissed when he suddenly heard a soft groan coming from the bed. Immediately, his eyes went to Hermione, whose eyes were scrunched in seeming pain.

"Hermione?" he heard Neville ask worriedly. Unlike Harry, the boy had shot to his feet in concern at the sound of her groaning.

"...le?" Hermione mumbled.

Harry frowned. "Hermione? Can you hear me?" he asked.

Slowly, Hermione's eyes opened up, but despite the sight of her intelligent brown eyes, he quickly realised something was wrong the moment she frowned.

"...ry?...ee?" she squeaked, her voice straining. Her eyes widened in panic as her trembling hands tried to reach up to her throat and eyes simultaneously, the indecision increasing her fear and horror.

Harry looked up at Neville, who seemed equally riveted with panic. "Neville!" he barked, getting the boy's attention. "Get Madame Pomfrey! Now!"

That seemed to snap the boy out of his stupor, as he nodded and dashed off. Returning his attention to Hermione, Harry reached out and grasped her hand, almost smiling at how perfectly this situation had arranged itself for him.

"Hermione," he said softly. "It's me, Harry. Don't worry. Neville went to get Madame Pomfrey," he reassured her. "You had Neville and me worried, you know."

Tears had started to form at the corners of Hermione's eyes, and Harry had to stop himself from grinning. The girl had grasped the subtext of his words — that only Neville and he had cared enough to worry about her.

"...ow...ng?" she tried to say, her eyes watering even more at her own inability to speak. It didn't take a genius to figure out what she meant to say, though.

"Two weeks," he informed her. "Neville and I have been visiting every day."

He would've preferred to leave Neville out of his narrative entirely, but the newfound realisation that the boy was very protective of Hermione necessitated that he be included. He would use Hermione's vulnerability to draw her to his side, and then use Neville's fondness for the girl to draw him in as well.

Again, however, his words seemed to have mixed effects. He felt her joy at being visited by her friends every day, as well as the crushing disappointment that no one else had. He pondered whether to influence her mindset further with the Dark Side, but the prompt arrival of Madame Pomfrey quickly shuttered that idea.

"Out of the way!" she immediately barked as she came up to the bed. Harry dutifully let go of Hermione's hand, which distressed her even further. Kudos to Pomfrey, he thought. As she ran her wand over Hermione, the nurse turned to look at him and frowned. "Mister Potter, perhaps it would be best if you left now. Miss Granger requires rest."

Harry nodded. "I understand. I'll be back later, Hermione," he said out loud for the girl's benefit. His words seemed to have the opposite effect, however, as Hermione's hands tried to reach out to him. He lingered only long enough for Pomfrey to shoot him an insistent look before walking away with a reluctant expression.

"None of that, Miss Granger," he heard the nurse say as he walked away. "Please stay still so we can figure out what's going on."

Harry smiled. Already, the adults were doing most of his work for him. By denying her access to her emotional support, they were inadvertently making her more and more vulnerable to his manipulation. As well intentioned as they were, their actions would prove to be their undoing.

The moment he audibly closed the infirmary's door, he felt a wave of Dark Side power wash over him, originating from within. His smile grew.

She was almost ready.

* * *

 _ **A Week Later…**_

"Did you hear about the Granger girl?"

Harry kept his expression carefully neutral as Michael brought up the topic while on their way to Charms class.

"What? That she got released from the infirmary? Everyone knows," replied Terry. "Poor girl."

"Not that! I heard the attack left her blind!" Michael said insistently. "And mute!"

"Ouch." That was Anthony. Eloquent as always.

"Not entirely mute, but the blind thing is true," Harry confirmed flatly. Immediately, he got three sets of eyes focusing on him. He rolled his own in response. "I visited her every day, remember? Her injuries were extensive."

"While you walk away from a fight with a bloody troll with just an injured shoulder," Michael remarked snarkily. "Bloody miracle, that."

"I got lucky," Harry said simply. "That's all."

"So you've told us," Terry remarked. "Doesn't make it any less of a miracle. Or stupid. Seriously, Harry: rushing off to fight a troll to save a damsel in distress is rather Gryffindor of you."

Anthony nodded. "Much wiser to just tell a teacher."

In hindsight, sure — that might've been the best call to make, objectively speaking. The problem with their logic, however, is that they assumed that Hermione had not been about to become troll prey when he rushed off. As it was, convincing a teacher of her predicament would've likely ended up killing Hermione.

Not that he'd ever say as much. Most of the school — some Slytherins included and some Gryffindors excluded — admired him for his bravery. Those who disagreed did so on the grounds that he'd been foolish (the Slytherin majority) or had somehow shamed them by being a brave Ravenclaw who saved a Gryffindor (the Gryffindor minority).

Either way, his star was on the rise — exactly as he wanted it. With the admiration of his peers, it would be easier to sway them to his side in the future. It also removed some of the oversight from Dumbledore, who seemed convinced by the incident that he was trustworthy.

Though it was hard to tell with that old man. Even with his Force senses fully attuned, he could not get a single concrete read off of the headmaster.

"Hindsight is 20-20," he said with a shrug.

Anthony frowned. "Hindsight is _what_?"

"Muggle saying," Terry informed his classmate.

"Either way, Granger's finished here," Michael pronounced as Anthony nodded in understanding.

Harry frowned. "How so?"

Michael stared at him funnily. "I forget you're not used to our world," he noted absently. "Anyway, Granger can't really stick around if she can't speak or see, now can she?"

"Why not?" asked Harry, concern welling up within. It would be somewhat irritating if he'd worked so hard at undermining Hermione's will, only to lose his pawn this early on to something as preposterous as her injuries!

"Well, most spells need to be spoken aloud, yeah?" Terry pointed out gently, picking up on his distress apparently. "And nevermind Potions. How would she brew? Or pick ingredients? Or prepare them?

"Merlin's beard, Harry! How would she even get around in this castle?" Michael added.

"Surely, Hermione's not the first blind and mute witch there's ever been," Harry said heatedly, stopping in his tracks. "Surely, there's a way for her to stay and learn!"

His classmates glanced at each other uneasily. "Harry…" Terry started.

"Fact is, Harry, most blind and mute witches — Merlin, even the deaf ones — don't typically end up coming to Hogwarts," Anthony informed him bluntly. "They get homeschooled."

Harry immediately saw the problem with that. "Hermione is Muggleborn," he pointed out.

Terry nodded slowly. "Which means she'll probably fall off the radar," he admitted. "That's how it generally goes for people like her."

The revelation struck him like a truck. For all his glee at getting Hermione in a vulnerable position, he had completely overlooked the fact that the Wizarding world was laughably behind in terms of inclusion. To them, a witch as injured as Hermione might as well have been a Squib.

Well, he could _not_ allow that to happen. He needed her by his side. He needed that resourcefulness and intelligence working for him. He needed her in order to get Neville as well. Far too much was riding on her remaining at Hogwarts for him to just give up like that.

That was why, upon class ending with Flitwick, he waved off his classmates and marched right up to his Head of House, a look of determination etched on his face.

"Mister Potter?" Flitwick asked curiously. "How may I help you?"

"Professor," he spoke respectfully, but firmly. "Is it true that Hermione might be kicked out because of her injuries?"

Flitwick seemed taken off-guard by the question, but the fact that he spent more than a few seconds to answer told him everything he needed to know. What his classmates had said was true. Hermione was destined to get kicked out.

"It's unfortunate…" Flitwick said gently, likely thinking that he was sparing Harry's feelings, "...but the school doesn't exactly have the means to deal with cases like hers."

Harry repressed a snort. He doubted that. With all the magic flying around, there was sure to be a mute assistance spell to help her spell out her thoughts audibly. Instead of vocalising her spells, Hermione could move directly into silent casting, which he knew the upper years were taught. Hell, she could learn sign language and so could the teachers.

This was just the Wizarding world being too entrenched to do anything effective about the situation.

Fine. If that's the game they wanted to play, he would rock their narrow-minded beliefs.

"Sir," he interrupted Flitwick as the diminutive professor explained the school bylaws. "What if someone were to take charge of Hermione? Guide her and assist her?"

Flitwick frowned. "Mister Potter, I commend your dedication to your friend," his Head of House said, sounding genuine, "but the additional workload…"

"...is something I would be willing to take," Harry said firmly. "I am already among the top scorers of my class, Professor, as you well know. I am also one of Hermione's few...friends. I know her. She loves Hogwarts. She loves to learn, and to strip her of a future simply because the _school_ can't adapt is hardly fair, now is it?"

Flitwick frowned. "...No, certainly not," he agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "But Mister Potter, you are both in different Houses. Most of your classes would not even intersect. How would you provide assistance?"

Admittedly, that _was_ a problem. At least, until one considered Hermione's very particular reputation. "Professor, before the incident, Hermione was on the path to becoming the top scorer of our year, was she not?" he asked.

Flitwick nodded, pleasantly surprised by the tangential question. "Why, yes!" he agreed. "One of the smartest students I've had the pleasure to teach. No offence, Mister Potter!"

Harry repressed an eye roll. If only the man knew how much he was holding back…"None taken, professor. However, as you've heard by now, her smarts have put her at odds with much of her House, one such incident leading to her present state."

Again, Flitwick frowned, though this one was more severe. "Ah, yes…" he confirmed. "Shameful, what happened. Simply shameful," he commented before frowning at him. "Are you suggesting we move her out of Gryffindor, Mister Potter?"

Harry nodded. "More than that, Professor. Make her an honorary Ravenclaw," he suggested. "Unlike in Gryffindor, she will not be discriminated against among us for her intelligence. If anything, I'm sure Padma, Sue, Mandy, and Lisa won't mind the additional competition."

The Charms professor chuckled. "No, I suppose they wouldn't," he conceded before frowning thoughtfully. "It would be unprecedented, but your idea has merit. It would be truly tragic to deprive someone as talented as Miss Granger of an education because of something out of her control."

Harry nodded. Good — Flitwick seemed convinced. "It's the fair thing to do, Professor."

"Indeed, indeed," his teacher agreed absently before staring at him again. "And you offer to take care of her? To guide her and help her out academically, as needed?"

Harry nodded again. "I will."

Flitwick hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I can't say I'm displeased with the notion of having Miss Granger transfer to Ravenclaw...though I suppose Miner—Professor McGonagall might have a problem with it. Allowances will have to be made…" he began mumbling, his train of thought apparently running a mile an hour.

Harry coughed, startling his Head of House. Flitwick blushed at the indiscretion and nodded at him.

"Very well, Mister Potter. You have my support. I will bring this up with Headmaster Dumbledore as soon as I can," he announced, filling Harry with barely disguised glee. The Charms professor shot him a proud look. "I have to say, Mister Potter: I am beyond gratified to see you reach out like this on behalf of a fellow student. You make our House proud."

Harry ducked his head. "I am merely thinking of the greater good, Professor," he said with all the humility he didn't feel.


	8. Meet The Parents

_**AN:** Hey guys! Sorry I'm two days late. Anyway, just wanted to clarify two things:_

 _1\. I cannot underline enough that Harry is **not** a good guy in this story. There is no redemption arc waiting in the wings. This is about how he becomes the **Sith'ari** , not a Grey Jedi or Barash taker. If you feel he's being evil - **good**. That's how he's meant to be portrayed. He will still have a sense of humour, and he **might** in fact fall in love at some point, but Harry is destined here to be **Sith**._

 _2\. I will no longer be posting updates for this story (or any other on this site) until **September** due to school obligations. I regret having to take this step, but my dissertation calls._

 _With that said, I hope you like the chapter! Also, if anyone knows of any good **A Song of Ice and Fire** / **Game of Thrones** fics involving a Medici-like family/bank intriguing in Westeros, I'd be very interested to hear about it!_

* * *

 _ **Two days later…**_

"Mr. Potter, could you come with me, please?"

Harry looked up from his breakfast to see his Head of House standing behind him, looking stern. For a moment, Harry wondered if perhaps one of his schemes had been caught out, before reassuring himself that he had taken every precaution to keep his activities under wraps. Nodding calmly, he excused himself from the table, nodding at his roommates, before accompanying Flitwick out of the Great Hall.

For a moment, Harry thought the diminutive professor would stay silent for the duration of their walk. Yet, once they were out of the Great Hall, the professor afforded him a glance.

"I had a talk with Headmaster Dumbledore," he informed Harry.

Harry felt a mix of anxiety and excitement that he ruthlessly crushed down. "Oh?" he asked with deceptive calm. They rounded a corner into another corridor that led towards the central areas of the castle.

Flitwick nodded. "I informed him of your passionate plea to keep Ms. Granger in Hogwarts," he said. "I believe he was open to the idea, but her parents are...understandably less convinced."

Harry nodded — that was understandable. Their daughter had nearly died, after all. Even now, she remained secluded in her room in Gryffindor, forced to rely on others — usually Neville — to navigate the school. As he'd expected, she refused to be excluded from lessons, despite her disabilities.

"I imagine I am about to meet them?" he asked his Head of House, already plotting numerous ways he could get the Grangers to see his way.

Flitwick nodded. "Indeed," he confirmed. "The Headmaster is under the impression that you might convince them, as you convinced me, that Ms. Granger is better suited to remain here, under our careful supervision, than she would be out in the Muggle world."

"I understand, Professor," he said as they came to a stop before a gargoyle. "Professor, is there any way Hermione might be granted either of her disabled faculties back through magic?" he asked.

Flitwick shook his head sadly. "Regrettably not, Mr. Potter. Had she been older, perhaps, but the only prosthetics we have for loss of vision requires fully developed brains, restricting them to adults. Had she suffered her injuries much later in life, she might have regained her vision by means of these devices. Regrettably, things are as they are."

"And her voice?"

Flitwick sighed. "The human body is a fragile thing, Mister Potter. As I understand it, the amount of damage she sustained is too dangerous to tinker around with. Perhaps Madame Pomfrey would have better answers for you," he suggested before turning to the gargoyle and saying, "Charm Choc."

Harry nodded as the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing a secret staircase, silently pleased with this information. It meant that there was little risk that his corruption of Hermione would be undermined by the easy restoration of her sight and speech. That meant that only her parents stood in his way.

Fortunately, they were muggles, which meant that their resistance to his powers should be low enough for him to implant suggestions without needing a major power boost. Otherwise, he would have to improvise.

He followed Flitwick up the staircase until they reached a rather simple looking door — nothing like what he'd expect of the door to the Headmaster's Office. Even at St. Grogory's, there was a sense of presentation when one went to see the Headmistress — the double doors, the frosted glass, the imposing lettering that seemed to scream trouble at you...half of the intimidation work against the students was based in the anticipation of punishment and a stern talking to, not the actual conversation.

He saw none of that in Dumbledore's door, which was disappointing on the one hand, and a good sign on the other — it signalled he was committed to this good guy mentality.

Flitwick knocked on the door twice, which prompted a cheerful "Come in!" The Charms Professor did just that, leading Harry into the office.

What struck Harry the most was the amount of books and devices Dumbledore had. It looked one part library, one part museum, and to be honest, he _loved it_. The library was always full of anxious kids and disrespectfully loud students, as well as that busybody librarian...but he could easily imagine Dumbledore lounging here with his books, enjoying the silence of his office.

Harry couldn't lie — he felt envious of the man.

"Ah, Filius! Harry! Please, come in!" Dumbledore greeted them as he stood up behind his desk. He gestured for them to take a seat before motioning to the two people already sitting opposite his desk. "Filius, Harry, I'd like you to meet the Grangers: Ian and Jean. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, these are my colleague, Professor Filius Flitwick; and his student, Harry Potter."

Filius bowed his head in greeting and extended a hand. "A pleasure," he said, approaching the shocked couple. Obviously, Flitwick's appearance had caught them somewhat off-guard. To their credit as human beings, however, they quickly rallied and Mr. Granger was the first to clasp Flitwick's hand.

"Indeed, Professor," Mr. Granger replied with a tight smile. "Were it under better circumstances, though."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Granger," Harry greeted Hermione's mother in the meantime, shooting her the most friendly smile he could muster. It seemed to work, as she smiled gently back at him. "Your daughter has said nothing but kind words about you."

"And you, Mister Potter," she said in return, her smile straining a bit at the mention of her daughter.

Harry noted that down in his mind before nodding at her and turning to greet Mr. Granger, even as Filius moved to greet Mrs. Granger. Once the introductions were done, Harry waited for Flitwick to take his seat before sitting down in the remaining chair — coincidentally, it was the furthest one from the Grangers. A pity, but he could work it.

"Harry."

He snapped his attention to the Headmaster, who was looking at him with the friendliest smile of all. In fact, were it not for the fact that Flitwick had informed him of the circumstances of this meeting and the Grangers' presence, he might never have guessed.

"Yes, Headmaster?" he asked politely.

"I'm told by Professor Flitwick that you volunteered, and indeed passionately defended, your classmate's right to remain here at Hogwarts. Is that correct?" Dumbledore asked him.

Harry repressed a confused frown. Of course that was true. What was Dumbledore trying to do? "Yes, Headmaster," he confirmed nonetheless. "Professor Flitwick informed me of the circumstances of Hermione's potential dismissal, and I found them profoundly unfair."

Dumbledore nodded, seemingly pleased with the answer, and he noticed peripherally that the Grangers' strained smiles had softened up a bit. Had that been the point of the pointless question? To show them that he wasn't fibbing or mocking their daughter?

"For the benefit of her parents, would you please outline your position?" he asked. He then turned to the Grangers. "If that's alright with you, that is."

The couple looked at each other for a moment before Mr. Granger turned back to Dumbledore and shrugged. "I suppose there's no harm."

"Wonderful," Dumbledore said with a smile before turning to Harry and nodding. "Harry?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, making sure to keep his anxiety in check. Thus far, he had managed to set himself up well without having had to use the Force to get his way. As long as he could manipulate the Grangers to see things his way without the use of Force suggestions — particularly in light of the fact that he was very much in the lion's den right now, so to speak — then he would consider this a win.

"Headmaster, according to the professors I've spoken to, and the stories Neville tells me about her, Hermione is potentially one of the brightest witch in my generation," he said. "This is not merely the opinions of others, however, but also mine. I have on occasion studied with her, and, false modesty aside, anything that took me a moment to understand, she grasped almost immediately. Her ability to deduce alternative practical applications for even mundane spells also set her aside from the other students, which, considering the state of the magical world, I believe is one of her most valuable skills."

He took a breath before deliberately making eye contact with the Grangers. "That is why I believe that pulling Hermione out from Hogwarts would be a waste of her skills."

Mr. Granger nodded slowly, while Mrs. Granger looked away. "I understand how you feel, Mr. Potter, but…"

Harry raised a hand. "I apologise, Mr. Granger, but I wasn't finished."

That seemed to take the man aback. "Oh?" asked Dumbledore, looking interested. Even Flitwick was scrutinising him closely.

Harry shook his head. "There are also safety concerns to bear in mind. Both for her, and those around her," he pointed out. "Based on what my classmates inform me, any student withdrawn from Hogwarts could only continue their studies at home with the help of a magical tutor. Yet, due to the prohibition of the use of wand magic for the underage outside Hogwarts, and the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Granger are classified as Muggles, the rules have been arranged such that she could not actually conduct these studies at home, even if she had access to a tutor."

"She could go to a friend's house?" suggested Dumbledore mildly. Harry again repressed a frown. Was he trying to sabotage his efforts? No...those twinkling eyes seemed to suggest he was actually quite bemused by his performance.

"With respect, Headmaster: which friends?" he asked, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the Grangers. "Besides myself and Neville, Hermione is all but socially isolated in Gryffindor. Professor?" he turned to Flitwick, who nodded gravely.

"It is most unfortunate," he said. "But following my conversation with Mr. Potter, I had a chat with Deputy Headmistress McGonagall about Ms. Granger's circumstances in Gryffindor. She carried out an investigation and confirmed that they were not...optimal."

Dumbledore nodded gravely while the Grangers' expression darkened. Before they could go down the wrong path, however, Harry spoke up.

"Which is why I suggested she move to Ravenclaw," he reminded Dumbledore. "Hermione is brilliant. Ravenclaw values intelligence, wisdom, and wit. Where her Housemates would feel threatened by her intelligence, we would welcome it."

Mr. Granger nodded slowly again before frowning at Dumbledore. "Why wasn't she put into Ravenclaw to begin with, then?"

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side. "Our Sorting process is not exactly...conventional, Mr. Granger. Did Ms. Granger not inform you of the details?"

Hermione's dad shook his head. "She glossed over it. Said she'd been placed into Gryffindor House and that she was terribly pleased."

Harry nodded gravely. "She was, Mr. Granger. I spoke to your daughter on the train ride, and when she was Sorted, she looked very happy indeed. Unfortunate that it should come to this."

Dumbledore's gaze turned to him in the blink of an eye, and Harry could've sworn he saw a frown for a fraction of a second there. He forced himself to remain calm and not tense up. Had he misspoken?

"Indeed," Mr. Granger agreed tightly before leaning back against his chair. "You were saying about safety concerns, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded, putting aside Dumbledore's reaction for now. "Devoid of a way to express her magic, which she has grown fond of, Hermione's emotional well-being may be harmed as a result. I have heard that untrained magic users under severe emotional strain tend to lash out with their magic at inopportune times, in fact."

Okay — _this_ time he _knew_ Dumbledore had reacted to what he'd said. Except it wasn't a frown; instead, the man had tensed up _hard_. Curious. Harry made a note of that.

"You're remarkably well spoken for a boy your age, Mr. Potter," Mrs. Granger remarked eyeing him with surprise. Harry played the shy card then.

"I...did not have many friendships at school, either, so I read a lot," he half-lied. No need to tell them he had deliberately engineered his lack of friendships at St. Grogory's. Or that XoXaan was a harsh taskmistress who demanded he speak at her level or not at all. "I guess that's one of the ways Hermione and I connected."

Mr. Granger's eyes widened. "She told you?" he asked, surprised.

Harry shook his head. "Not explicitly, but I recognised the signs."

"Signs?" Flitwick asked, somewhat lost.

The Grangers exchanged a look before Mr. Granger sighed. "Hermione was...bullied at school," he explained. "We'd hoped that, maybe...she would finally find peers like her here. But after what happened…"

"We feared the worst," Mrs. Granger finished softly, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. She looked at Harry with half-formed tears in her eyes. "Thank you for saving our daughter, Mr. Potter."

Mr. Granger nodded in agreement. "Indeed. It was remiss of us not to have thanked you sooner."

Harry ducked his head, playing the part. "I regret only that I could not prevent her from suffering the injuries she did," he said.

"You cannot control everything, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said sagely. "Especially in a fight. As it is, you were remarkably lucky, or talented, to have come out of that as uninjured as you were."

Harry looked away, smiling shyly. "I...had to learn to be quick on my feet before I came to Hogwarts."

He spared a brief glance at Dumbledore, who seemed to be eyeing him curiously. Had the old man bought it? Technically, that was no lie — XoXaan was _very_ strict about keeping his physical regimen up to par for a Sith acolyte.

"Anything else, Harry?" Dumbledore asked genially.

Harry thought about it for a moment before shaking his head slowly. "No, sir. That's all I can think of."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well: that was well stated, Harry. You should be proud," he said with a smile before turning to Flitwick. "And you too, Filius. It's rare to have as eloquent a student as Harry."

"Naturally," Flitwick agreed, patting Harry on the arm. "Harry is one of my finest in his year!"

Harry felt his pride swell up a bit at that compliment. Of course he was. For all their smarts, Michael, Terry, and Anthony were all far more concerned with more trivial pursuits than actual academics. If anything, his closest competition in terms of grades all came from the girls' dorm.

Nodding again, Dumbledore turned to the Grangers. "Mr. Granger, Mrs. Granger, I would be remiss if I failed to inform you that, for all of young Harry's excellent points thus far, there is one option we can provide Ms. Granger to ensure her safety and transition back into your world."

Harry tensed up. What was this?

"Oh?"

"We could simply bind her magic," Dumbledore explained. "It isn't done very often — in fact, rarely at all — but it would mean cutting off your daughter's access to magic."

Harry felt his vision blur. By the Force...if such a spell existed…!

"Headmaster!" Flitwick squeaked. "Surely not!"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "It would not be my recommendation, but I am bound by law to offer it."

Harry turned to the Grangers, gathering as much of the Dark Side as he could — ready to put a stop to this _right now_ , if need be.

Fortunately, he needn't have worried. Both of Hermione's parents were frowning at each other.

"Forgive my ignorance, Headmaster, but you said this spell is rarely used: why?" he asked.

Dumbledore sighed. "For the most part, our society does not believe in restricting any person's natural right to their magic. However, on rare occasions, certain individuals do arise who, due to unfortunate circumstances in their lives, have a... less than acceptable grasp on their magic and emotional stability."

"Criminals?" asked Mrs. Granger suspiciously.

Dumbledore shook his head once. "No."

Harry's eyes widened as Dumbledore's insinuation clicked in his mind. Flitwick, undoubtedly already aware of what Dumbledore was saying, refused to meet anyone's gaze. Dumbledore kept his stare steadily on the Grangers, who quickly enough seemed to grasp the implications of his statement.

" _Disabled children?_ " hissed Mr. Granger.

"I'm afraid so."

Mr. Granger shot to his feet. "My daughter is not about to be...to be…!" he thundered, " _chemically castrated_ over something that is _not her fault!_ "

Harry had to give it to the man — it was an apt comparison.

Dumbledore seemed unfazed, however. "As I said, it is merely an option."

"Not an _acceptable_ one!" Mrs. Granger spat as her husband nodded. "I can't believe what I'm hearing!"

Harry nodded in agreement with the Grangers, though he kept his eyes on Dumbledore. Why had the man volunteered such information in such a way? Had he wanted to, the option to cut Hermione's magic off could've been presented in a far more friendlier manner — one that wouldn't evoke such a visceral reaction from her parents. Combined with a memory charm, it was, after all, the most logical option to get Hermione to seamlessly transition back into Muggle life.

That's when it clicked for Harry — Dumbledore _didn't_ want to expel Hermione. He _didn't_ want to use that spell on her. In his own way, he had set things up to ensure that the most logical option was the _least_ _preferable_ one.

As much as Harry was in awe of such manipulation, however, he felt far more envious. And confused. Weren't champions of the Light supposed to be above this sort of trickery?

"Then do I take this to mean that Ms. Granger will be remaining with us?" Dumbledore asked calmly, his eyes twinkling. Harry glanced at the Grangers and noticed the uneasy glances they shot each other. Clearly, their opinions on the matter had been thrown into doubt.

"I…" Mr. Granger started before sitting down heavily. "I don't know," he admitted before turning to his wife. "Dear?"

She looked at Flitwick, then Dumbledore, then at Harry, before finally back at Dumbledore. "I admit...Mr. Potter made a few good arguments...and I _don't_ want my daughter treated like a threat to society…"

Mr. Granger nodded. "But...this place is dangerous. Our daughter was _hurt_ here. More than she ever was at her regular school, and that includes the bullying."

"And do you believe that will change if she goes back in her present condition?" asked Dumbledore pointedly.

Both Grangers blanched. Harry himself restrained a derisive snort. Of course it wouldn't. He'd had first-hand experience in the cruelty of other children — and those didn't have access to magic. Between her superior intelligence, her desire to learn, and her disabilities, the bullies at regular schools would zero in on her like a starving wolf on prime meat.

Mr. Granger sighed resignedly. "No, I suppose not," he conceded. Mrs. Granger nodded in agreement.

That was his cue. "Then she'll stay?" he asked enthusiastically.

Mr. Granger and his wife shot him wan smiles before turning to Dumbledore. Good — he had them convinced of his genuineness, at least. "We have conditions," Mrs. Granger said firmly.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I will endeavour to meet them as best I can," he agreed warily.

"Hermione is moved immediately to another House," Mr. Granger said sternly. He turned to Flitwick. "Yours is...Ravenclaw, correct?"

Flitwick nodded. "Indeed!"

"And Mr. Potter says you value intelligence? You'll value my daughter?" he pressed.

Flitwick's nod was far more serious this time. "Of course. A mind like hers is to be cherished, not condemned."

The Grangers nodded and turned back to Dumbledore. "We would rather she move to Ravenclaw, then," Mrs. Granger said, before turning to Harry. "And Harry, can we depend on you to look after our daughter?"

 _Like you wouldn't believe_ , Harry thought smugly before nodding with the most sincere expression he could muster. "Of course, Mrs. Granger. Hermione is a dear friend."

The Grangers smiled at him gratefully before again turning back to Dumbledore. "We're aware that Hermione will have to remain in the girls' dorm, but we would greatly appreciate it if Harry here could be assigned to look after her."

Dumbledore nodded. "Is that all?" he asked genially.

The Grangers exchanged another look. "What about the bullies who led to this incident?" Mrs. Granger asked. "I can only imagine they were suitably punished?"

Flitwick tensed up, though Dumbledore managed to remain outwardly calm. Harry knew the students responsible for Hermione's bullying had seen a single day in detention. According to the rules, after all, they had done nothing wrong. He'd made sure to let Hermione know that.

"To the fullest extent that our disciplinary code allows, yes," Dumbledore answered diplomatically. Clever of him, too, since it wasn't technically a lie.

The Grangers seemed to have noticed that, too, but wisely decided to let it lie. After all, they were the ones at a disadvantage here — being Muggles, they never really knew what the social mores and limitations were.

"Then aside from your word that they will not be able to torment my daughter again, that would be everything," Mr. Granger said. "Is this acceptable?"

Harry eyed Dumbledore — this was the moment of truth. Would he? Wouldn't he?

"I find these terms acceptable," Dumbledore agreed genially. "I admit, it is exceedingly rare for someone to switch Houses once they've been Sorted," he said. "But not unprecedented. Though it has most often been as a result of maturing perspectives rather than something like this. Filius?"

His Head of House sat up. "Yes, Headmaster?"

"Please see to it that another bed is added to the girl's dorm," Dumbledore ordered. "And please let the girls know they are about to have another roommate. I will take care of notifying Minerva."

Flitwick inclined his head. "As you say, Headmaster," he acknowledged before turning to Harry. "Come along, Harry."

"Not Harry, Filius," Dumbledore quickly stopped him. "I've been meaning to speak to him again, but unfortunately never had the time."

Flitwick seemed as surprised as Harry felt, but nodded and excused himself before departing. Harry, for his part, couldn't deny the well of anxiety rising up in him — why would Dumbledore want to meet with him? Why now? Had he noticed something?

He waited as Dumbledore and the Grangers concluded their conversation, and genially said his goodbyes to Hermione's parents once they were done. Both of them smiled and shook his hand a lot, thanking him quite a bit for having saved their daughter. Playing the part of the good boy, he accepted these thanks shyly before seeing them off at the fireplace, which was connected to the Floo network, apparently.

Once they were gone, however, he felt his last barrier between him and Dumbledore vanish. Turning to face the Headmaster, he complied with the old man's gesture that he take a seat directly opposite of him.

"Harry," the old wizard began, "I must say: I've never been more gratified to witness such displays of student solidarity. It truly warms my heart."

"It was nothing, sir," Harry replied evenly. "Hermione is my friend. Defending her is the obvious thing to do."

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Quite," he mused. "But I wonder, Harry, if perhaps there isn't more to this that you didn't say to Ms. Granger's parents?"

Harry clamped down his rising anxiety. "More, sir?"

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon glasses. "Perhaps other reasons why you might want Ms. Granger to remain at Hogwarts?" he suggested. "Perhaps something to do with the private meetings you and she have been conducting in certain empty classrooms?"

Harry stared blankly at Dumbledore before reddening up like a tomato as the full implications of his question hit him. The embarrassment came hand in hand with a profound sense of relief — Dumbledore wasn't suspicious of his abilities, he was suspicious about his relationship with Hermione! Oh...that was _rich_!

"No!" he squeaked. "No! It's not like that!" he protested furiously. "We're...not like that! She's just a friend!"

Dumbledore chuckled as he leant back into his chair, steepling his hands. "Harry, far be it from me to judge, though I do personally believe you two to be perhaps somewhat young for this sort of thing," he mused out loud, much to Harry's amused embarrassment. As mortifying as this was, it was also quite the alibi Dumbledore had unexpectedly saddled him with. "And in fact, you would not be the first, shall we say...precocious students Hogwarts has had."

"Headmaster, I insist…"

Dumbledore waved away his protests. "I just want to make sure that you understand that, according to the rules, such relationships are frowned upon until at _least_ your third year," he explained. "Loathe as I am to disrupt young love, I'm afraid I must insist that these private meetings with Ms. Granger come to a stop. As much for her sake as for yours."

Harry stared at the old man wide-eyed. "Of...Of course, Headmaster. I understand. We won't."

Dumbledore smiled at him genially and nodded. "Good. Good. As I said, I am reluctant to interfere in such matters, but perhaps your feelings for each other might persist until the regulations no longer compel me to do so, yes?"

Personally, Harry wouldn't bet on it. Still, he had to make good with this new opportunity. "Of...of course, Headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded again. "Very good. Well, then, I shouldn't keep you any longer. Off to class with you!"

Harry couldn't get out of that office fast enough.

* * *

 _Two Weeks Later…_

"Christmas break is coming up soon."

Harry waited patiently for Hermione to scribble something down on her pad. When she lifted it up, he could see she'd written, _WHERE YOU GOING?_ on three separate lines.

"I'll probably stay here," he told her as he pushed her magically enhanced wheelchair down the corridors — in a place like this, it would've normally been a hell of a chore, but Dumbledore and Flitwick had charmed it so that it technically hovered over the ground, making it much easier to handle. "My family isn't exactly...fond of me, as you know."

More furious scribbling. _FAMILY IS FAMILY_.

He chuckled. "Not to the Dursleys. Or many other people."

Hermione huffed in her seat, but let the matter drop. He chuckled at her discontent — for all the work he'd done on her to draw her to his side, Hermione was a mite stubborn on some issues; issues that he believed, once overcome, would break her spirit and make her seek out the Dark.

"We really need to get you to master that spell," he observed mildly, enjoying watching her tense up. The spell in question was not the one typically used by the mute among the wizarding community to communicate. Far too lazy to actually learn sign language, most of them relied on air writing to "speak." The blind, for their part, tended to use braille to read. The blind-mutes, however...that was a rather tricky combination, as far as communication went in the wizarding world.

Dumbledore had suggested a spell that would allow her to essentially project her thoughts, but admitted that eye contact was necessary for the most part. Contact she could no longer make. Still, that hadn't stopped her from trying.

He felt waves of the Dark Side emanating from her as he reminded her of her current failure and relished in its feeling. It wouldn't take much longer now before she swallowed her pride and asked him — perhaps even begged him — for help.

"You know, I could help you, if you want," he offered once again.

She once again shook her head, still stubbornly committing to her independence. It was hard for her to rely on others, after a lifetime of being socially isolated. He could understand that, though he also knew she would break sooner or later.

Sooner being preferable.

"Alright. Should we look for Neville, then?" he suggested. He felt her perk up a bit before once again slumping in her seat. Harry nearly grinned. He'd made sure to keep their interactions at a minimum by conveniently avoiding letting the two make contact as often as possible.

Each time he felt Neville's presence nearby, he would push Hermione down another corridor or distract her with some other task, such that they very rarely had time to talk to each other. Thanks to Hermione's transfer to Ravenclaw, the school schedule took care of that for the most part, but he took care of the small gaps in between classes. The result was that they could only meet during breakfast, lunch, and dinner periods, and even then, he played on her scholastic commitment to avoid remaining in the Great Hall for too long.

The results were exquisite. Both Neville and Hermione had begun wallowing deeper and deeper in their depression. As cordial and attentive as the Ravenclaw girls were compared to her Gryffindor Housemates, Hermione was still effectively a stranger to them at this point, whereas her roommates had begun forming bonds from Day 1. Neville, for his part, was still the socially awkward klutz he always was, except without Hermione on hand to boost his self-esteem when Slytherins, Snape, or even sometimes his own Housemates derided him.

In fact, the last time he had felt such a burst of Dark Side energy coming from Gryffindor Tower two days ago, it had been at King's Cross. He'd slept like a baby that night.

But there was more to lift his mood, as well. For the first time since his Master had cut off all communication with him, he had felt her presence. It was faint, but XoXaan's holocron was beginning to resonate to his energy again. He knew that it was now just a matter of time before XoXaan would grant him an audience once more.

"We could always just stay in at Ravenclaw Tower," he offered, knowing she would nod in defeat. She usually did these days.

Going outside was no longer really possible, thanks to the snow and cold, and though he enjoyed letting her hear other students play around — it always seemed to break her spirits a bit — he knew that "accidentally" doing so too often would reveal his ill intentions. Staying in the Great Hall, hearing the students interact so joyfully, also seemed to hurt her — particularly since virtually none of that interaction seemed aimed at her. Only Harry and his friends, and her roommates at times, would speak to her.

She nodded, as he knew she would. Smiling, he pushed her wheelchair in the direction of their tower, thinking of new ways to apply mental torment on his soon-to-be fellow acolyte. He knew XoXaan would have the answer to her communication and vision problems, and he couldn't _wait_ to see his Master get her hooks into Hermione. Then, once Hermione understood that Harry had given her a new lease on life, she would be _forever_ loyal.

Unfortunately, he did not get to have an incident-free trip to Ravenclaw Tower. Halfway there, he sensed Neville's presence and, not wanting to be rid of Hermione's delightfully depressed vibes, he quickly turned a corner, much to her surprise.

She scribbled something and held it up for him to see.

 _WHAT HAPPEN?_

"Saw some Slytherins," he lied smoothly. "Looked like Malfoy and his hanger-ons. Thought you might want to avoid them."

Another wave of Dark Side energy flowed from her, and he knew he'd pressed the right button there. She nodded in agreement and sat back into her chair.

Eventually, he felt Neville's presence move further away and relaxed, resuming his trek up the staircases. He made a mental note to thank Flitwick and Dumbledore again for the Featherlight charm on Hermione's chair, or else this would've been far more tiresome a venture. As they reached the seventh floor, he took note that he wasn't quite familiar with this particular corridor.

"Is that a...man dancing in a tutu?" he mused aloud as he passed the painting. How idiotic. These force users here truly had a strange sense of humour. Still, as amusing as it was, he wished he knew precisely where he was, or where to go to get back to Ravenclaw.

He then noticed Hermione brought up another sheet — this one with some unintelligible scribbles, followed by one clear word: _TUTU?_

He grinned as he noticed her shoulders were shaking in amusement. "I know, right?" he said as they reached the end of the corridor. He frowned as they did, realising he didn't actually recognise either of these passages, either. "Damn. I think I took a wrong turn. Bare with me, Hermione."

She nodded silently as he turned her chair around and walked past the stupid painting again. Force help him, it really _was_ quite stupid. Again, he wished there was some kind of map around here, or maybe a well-labeled door of some kind to tell him where to go.

Reaching the other end of the corridor again, he once again found himself feeling frustrated. He had no memory of this particular corridor, and trying to sense his fellow Ravenclaws through the Force was apparently impossible here. Instead, all he got was a feeling like his senses were coming up against a massive wall of magic/the Force. Which was impossible, of course, because the Force could not coalesce that way.

At least, not as far as he knew.

Again, Hermione scribbled something on her pad. _RIGHT WAY?_

"Dunno," he admitted. "Can't seem to orient myself."

 _MAYBE GO BACK?_

He considered it, and just as quickly dismissed the idea. He could feel Neville's faint presence a few floors beneath him. If they went down the stairs, they would meet him, and his influence on Hermione today would be wasted.

"No...I think we were going the right way the first time, after all," he lied. Turning again, he ignored her frustrated huff and walked back down the corridor. For the third time, he wished there was some kind of street marker or map, or labelled door that would get him to Ravenclaw Tower—!

As soon as he walked across from the stupid painting of the man dancing in a tutu, he felt a _blast_ of Force energy that made his knees buckle and weakened his grip on Hermione's wheelchair. As she made distressed noises, he fell to his hands and knees as the enormous amounts of Force power washed over him, nearly overloading his senses.

"What…" he gasped. "What _was_ that?" he breathed.

He looked back at towards where the origin point of the blast and was stunned to see a doorway where none had been before. Over its frame was a simple sign that said:

 _CORRIDOR TO RAVENCLAW TOWER ENTRANCE_

Harry's eyes bulged. That hadn't been there before. Had the Force materialised it? Was it a feature of this castle? He racked his mind for any other similar occasion, or any stories he might have heard of such circumstances, but came up short. Was this something confined to this particular corridor?

Hermione's noises of distress became louder, snapping him out of his reverie. Quickly getting back to his feet, he grabbed hold of her wheelchair again, making it hover. "Sorry!" he apologised. "Sorry! I must've tripped."

She furiously scribbled another message. _YOU OK?_

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I found a way back to the Tower. You ready to go?" he asked her. She nodded, a pleased smile on her face. "Alright, let's go back. I'm sure we'll find something to help you out with that communication spell in the library this time."

She winced, prompting a smile from him. As he opened the new door, he was surprised to see that it had delivered — at the very end of the new corridor, he could see the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, and the entrance to the Tower.

Yet, the moment they reached the statue, he turned around to check it was still there, and it wasn't, having inexplicably disappeared into thin air. Scanning the wall for any signs that it had been a corridor at one point, he found no traces of the passageway, nor could he feel the Force in the stonework — so it wasn't a mirage, like at King's Cross.

As Hermione made a noise that suggested she was curious why they stopped, he turned from observing the wall and resumed his trek up Ravenclaw Tower, where he could now feel his fellow students without any problem. In fact, he could even feel his Master's presence more fully than ever.

And for some reason, he had a feeling that mysterious corridor had something to do with her return.


End file.
